Life is Death is Dead
by ThomE.Gemcity-06
Summary: (a ZOMBIE fic). Sickness takes France, and the dead walk the land. d'Artagnan was born special, but what happens when others discover this? Paris is supposed to be a safe haven, will the Musketeers protect him like his father promised?
1. Prologue: (How They Began)

**Disclaimer: I don't not own The Musketeers.**

 **a/n: This is a Zombie Fic, don't hate on me. I hope it's as good as it appears in my head. Fingers crossed. Here we go... (the same rules for the dead from "The Walking Dead," apply. You don't need to be bitten to be turned, just dead).**

 **Summary:  
** _Sickness takes France, and the dead walk the land. d'Artagnan was born special, but what happens when others discover this? Paris is supposed to be a safe haven, will the Musketeers protect him like his father promised?_

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Life is Dead is Death  
** _Prologue:_

The first indication that Athos had that his life was turning into a desolate pit, was _not_ the day that sickness washed through France when he'd been 25 and Thomas 15, killing anyone and everyone, before animating their dead corpses... but the day he came into the parlour to find two dead servants half consumed, the room covered in blood—and his baby brother Thomas as the turned culprit.

A sob clawed up his throat as Thomas looked up from his current meal of the footman, to see a fresh meal. He clambered to his feet and headed straight for the Comte. Athos barely managed to recover his senses before the dead man reached him. He struggled for a moment, before he managed to get a grip under Thomas' snapping jaw.

He stared shakily at his brother who was no longer his brother, but a mindless, dead creature that murdered without bias. Blood from his two victims covered the lower-half of his face, his hands and sleeves, and his entire shirt front. Flesh, _human_ flesh was caught between his teeth. His eyes, blue as Athos' own, were a pale white with a pinpricked pupils. Behind those eyes was not the mind of his smart-aleck, strong-willed, annoying little brother that he had known for the last eighteen-years, but the mindless, soulless monster that had used his brother for killing and consuming.

It grunted and groaned as its jaw snapped at him, as if it were trying to speak, but lacked the function to move its tongue in a fashion besides wanton movements thirsting for a taste. Its fingers clawing for heedlessly and uselessly at his shirtsleeves.

With a shuddering breath, he took the knife, one of the many that he always kept on his person these days, and rose it towards his brother. Its pale gaze didn't even flicker towards the weapon. It didn't know what it was, or care.

His wife found him on the floor of the parlour, surround by death and flesh, cradling his brother in his lap, hard tears clouding his blue eyes. He'd been 26 when they married. He was nearly 28 now at the death of his baby brother.

Pale and shaking, Anne ignore the gore and knelt at his side, her arms wrapped around his hard shaking shoulders.

The raspy groan punctuated the silence and she nearly feel back in statement as the infection took over the two dead servants and reanimated their remains. Athos set Thomas down, and with the same knife, turned and stabbed each corpse through the skull and into their brains.

Anne had been his only comfort and peace. She held his heart and his soul.

Athos ordered the two servants burned, and before Thomas' burial in the cemetery next to their father and mother, he examined the body. Wanting, needing, to discover the cause for Thomas' turn. Anne tried to talk him out of it, but he wasn't to be swayed.

He suspected that it might have been a bite, though if it had, he knew Thomas would have told him. As he discovered, it was a stab wound to the abdomen that he killed his brother.

But the ground fell from beneath his feet, crumbled from existence as a couple weeks later after his brother's death, he discovered the culprit to his original murder. The one who had stabbed his human body and left him to turn into that monster.

The woman that he loved, that he cherished. Anne had murdered his brother.

So he killed her, sent her from the house and to the outside, sent her to her death. It was more than she deserved. He should have hung her, but he was barely holding on as it was. The bottle was his only true companion now.

It wasn't but a week later, that he left his life as Comte behind, the people of Pinon, his family's home for generations. He couldn't stand to be surround by the bitter-sweet memories that darkened every corner, taunting and haunting him. He didn't care whether he lived or died. Let the dead come, what did he care?

* * *

Porthos had been fighting to stay alive since he could first remember. The outlook of life had not been a good one for him form the very start of his life. His mother, a single, impoverished, freed-slave who spoke broken French, was left to the gutter with her infant son. He was forced to grow up fast. Learned to see the dangers that no child that young should. Learned to wield a dagger and use his fists like bricks, his fingers nimble to snatch.

He was 8 when he lost his mother. His two best-friends became his family. Charon and Flea. They watched each other's backs. They took care of each other. He was fifteen when the first person became sick, a man in the Court. Soon after, the dead walked.

When the sickness came, the Court of Miracles was like a hotbed. The close quarters, people living shoulder-to-shoulder. It wasn't a year before King Louis ordered the Court to razed to the ground, safe in his Palace surrounded by guards.

Charon had been bitten and put-down some weeks before. Flea refused to leave, even as the smoke clogged the streets. This was her home, where she belonged, she had declared to Porthos. Porthos was determined to either stay beside her in death, or knock her out and drag her away. But somehow, against it all, she managed to convince him dumbly that he was meant for better things than to die in the Court, to go down as nothing.

So he'd kissed Flea one last time, pressing his forehead to her own, his hand grasping the nape of her neck through her dreaded and beaded blond locks. And then he was gone through the smoke, shoving and slashing through the bodies; unable to tell which were the living, the dead, or the Red Guards with torches and pitch. And then he was into the streets of Paris, determined to do as Flea had told him (like he always did) and find out his destiny.

* * *

Aramis' father had been a very devote man, his faith never wavering. Not when the five d'Herblays: Alejandro and his beautiful wife Roberta, with their three sons Antony, Maurice, and René, immigrated from Spain to France for a better life. Not when the trip cost Maurice his life. Not when years later, Roberta was taken during the birth of their stillborn daughter. And then his eldest son was claimed after injury working in the field.

His belief did not falter, not when René was 12 and sickness overran France, killing the living, and raising the dead. It was a test from God. When he watched his neighbours and friends, their children and families, the people from his church become sick and then turn on their own.

Even after the dishonour and sin his youngest did of laying with a neighbour girl in the town, during the dangers of the night. When the girl Isabelle, just sixteen, fell pregnant, it was the right thing, both fathers agreed, that the two married.

The wedding was held in the town's church, and what was left of its people attended. It would be good to lift people's spirits, to show them that even through all the death and devastation, there was still things that were worth loving, there was still life to be lived, even surrounded in death.

René, even though just seventeen, with his whole-life ahead of him, was happy. He was with the girl that he loved, he was soon to have a son or a daughter. A family of his own after his were taken from him one and then another. Despite how the world, so beautiful before, was now painted macabre with the dead walking. He still found pieces of joy. Six months into the pregnancy, Isabelle miscarried. The anniversary the next year, she disappeared. One year after that, Alejandro finally died of a heart attack.

Aramis was alone. His entire family, gone before him. His wife and child. He had wanted to give up, give in. There was nothing here for him now. But he stayed alive for his father, who had also watched him family die one at a time, but still kept faith.

So Aramis held onto that belief, that he was still alive in this God forsaken world, because God had a plan for him.

* * *

The sky was black, the stars in the night sky painted over with dark clouds. A rain was coming down, masking the natural and unnatural sounds of the outside. The shadows of the cave were cast aside by the flickering flame of the quickly made fire.

Moans of distress punctuated the air, sounds desperately trying to be quiet. Nature in its purest sense was taking its course, even if in the most unnatural circumstance. An exchange—for as long as time itself. One life leaving the world, and a new one entering it.

Alexandre d'Artagnan and his young wife Ella had tried to be as helpful as they might when the sickness first started. Offering shelter to those in need of it, giving away food from their fields. But quickly, even the farmlands out in Gascony, so spaced, were slowly overrun by the sick. And not one-year into the epidemic, they were forced from their home.

Not by the dead. For all their charity to strangers, a group a men had forced the couple from their home. Alexandre knew there was naught he could do. If he fought, they would kill him, and who knew what they might do to the heavily pregnant Ella.

Alexandre was a prepared man, and having feared that one day, unwilling, they were forced from their home by thugs, he'd set up several different locations around his land to make camp.

It was night and all they had was the light from the full moon and the peppered stars in the sky. The wood was filled with shadows. And the shadows were filled with the hidden. They'd been nearly to the cave that Alexandre had found and hidden supplies within, praying that they were untouched by both weather, nature, the living and the dead—though the dead only bothered after things with warm flowing blood—when the trio of walkers crossed their paths.

He was able to kill the first one almost instantly, slashing the top of its decaying head off. The second, he thrust his sword, it got caught in the creatures skull and he stumbled back, trying to wrench it free. That was when he heard Ella scream and his heart stopped.

Abandoning his sword for the moment, the walker dropped to the ground dead, and he spun around, his knife in his grasp. The creature was on top of her, its teeth latched onto her arm held in defence of her stomach. In her other hand was a hefty rock, which she was currently beating the dead with, but it seemed to have little effect.

Alexandre grabbed the collar of the walker's shirt and wrenched it off his wife, shoving his knife into its brain in the same moment. He shoved the dead off him, and rushed to his sobbing wife. She was a dead woman, marked. No one survived a bite.

Ella simply refused to give in though, and after giving a shuddering breath, she stilled and focused and locked eyes with her husband. In a lightly trembling voice, said _cut if off!_ Alexandre had been horrified, he could not mutilate his pregnant wife like that. But her denial and mention of their child who would be here in a matter of days, convinced it. Alexandre stood and retrieved his stuck sword form the walker's skull. He doused it and Ella's arm with the small flask of wine he had, gave her a stick to clench between her teeth, laid her trembling arm straight and tied it off.

Her scream was just as horrible as when she'd been bitten. The limb came off after two blows, and blood spurted everywhere. She only managed to stay conscious for a few short moments before passing out from the pain or blood loss. He quickly wrapped the wound and picking up his unconscious wife, and carried her the rest of the way to the cave.

Luckily, thankfully, the supplies he had left there were untouched.

He settled his wife and built a fire, sticking his dagger into the flame. He was going to have to cauterize the wound, there was no other choice. He watched his wife throughout the night, and by morning, it was obvious that fever had taken her. Though Alexandre could never be sure whether it was from the bite or her arm.

Ella held on for four days, and then she forced her husband to face reality. She wasn't going to make it, but their child, their _son_ could. And the babe in her stomach seemed to agree, because not a few hours later did her water break and the fevered and pained woman went into labour.

Ella never even got to hold her son before she passed.

Tears clouded his dark eyes, as Alexandre punctured his wife's brain with his knife, the mark hidden in her dark hair. Her skin was still warm from the fever. He caressed her sleeping face for a moment, taking her in, remembering her, before the fussing on the naked babe in his arms pulled him back to the here and now.

Alexandre knelt at her side, and one handed, started to undo the laces of her shirt. She'd been bitten, and he had no idea how it had effected her milk, but at the moment, he had no other choice. He hugged the dead woman to his chest and bared her own. Arms wrapped out them both, he put the baby to her breast. Almost instantly, he latched onto the nipple and started to suckle.

His son was all he had left, he would do everything and anything, to make sure that his son—Charles Xavier d'Artagnan—lived, even if it was in a cruel world like this one.

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

So... is this making any sense to you? It's just a little background into how it all started for our boys, that lead them onto the path of coming into each others lives. Obviously, as you can see, the ages are all messed up. I know, I confused about it myself. The story will take off presently in the next chapter, 15 years after d'Artagnan's birth. Thank you for reading, please review so I know I'm not entirely insane and illiterate.

And, as is well known René is Aramis' given-name.

Thanks! :)

y


	2. Chapter 1: (15 Years Later)

**a/n: Thank you to all those who have reviewed/favorited/followed just after that short prologue. It makes me super happy, but now I pray the following story doesn't turn to crap. :) I'm feeling very 'aargh!' about it, and I don't know why.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and any zombie concerns.**

 **Chapter includes (warning):** Concented underage sex with an adult,  
 **Note:** Story starts 15 years after d'Artagnan's birth.

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

* * *

 **Life is Death is Dead**  
 _Chapter 1:_ —

The sky was a clean blue, pockmarked by the fluffy-white clouds. A rapid change from the last weeks of moist and rain. The large field was enclosed by trees. Its grass was lush and tall, a vibrant green. Flowers of various kinds and colours sprouted up throughout. Birds twittered and swooped playfully through the open-air above. It was peaceful and beautiful, a rare piece—to bad it could not last long. Nothing in the world today did.

The fifteen-year-old boy drew his sword from his belt and pushed through the grass, his left-hand grassing the tops of the grass as he approached the spaced, ambling zombies. There were seven of them, five men and two women. All in various states of decomposition. As he killed the first one, a cut to the head—always the head—the others were drawn from their mindlessness and the dinner-bell was rung. They headed straight for him, their groaning taking up a new energy. He drew his _main gauche_ , his tongue moistening his lips as he enlarged his steps and met them.

It was like a dance, fluid, as he moved through and around them, long and short steel glinting on the light, to grow duller as dark blood painted the metal. The bodies dropped, silent into the grass, and the long drone of their noises vanishing from atmosphere.

He was left standing in a circle of various states of decapitation, panting lightly. He bent and cleaned his blades in the grass before sheathing them again. He swept a palm up his face, and ran the long, dark locks out of his eyes, surveying his work.

Seven. He'd been lucky. Their stations had been to his own advantage.

His father had taught him well, but this was how he honed the skill. He'd held steel in his hand since first he could remember, as soon as he was able to walk, Alexandre was forced to put a weapon in his chubby little fingers.

He stepped over the bodies and headed across the field to the wood, plucking an orange flower from the grass and swirling it pleasantly at his nose.

He found his way easily back to their camp, just a simple tent set up amongst the trees. Tomorrow, they would break camp and set off again.

"You're back fast," Alexandre remarked upon the sight of his son from where he sat at the small campfire.

"I got lucky," d'Artagnan replied, his fingers brushing through the soft rabbit fur as he pulled the dead rabbit from where it had been tucked into his belt.

His father smiled as he took the animal, their supper for tonight. "Any trouble?"

"Seven." He answered truthfully as he sat across from his father. Alexandre straightened at that, but his son hurried to explain. "I'm fine. The rabbit put up more trouble than that lot."

Alexandre sighed and took out his knife, slitting the back of the rabbit, before pulling the skin off in one piece. It had been nearly sixteen years since the sickness came, the world was desiccated. This was the only world the young Gascon knew, and so couldn't be as troubled by it. The elder, on the other hand, remembered when every day wasn't lived in fear. Where they weren't forced to live day-to-day, where his wife Ella was still alive. He wished, but was also glad that Charles wasn't born then, because he wasn't forced to suffer with what was no longer.

"Just because you're special, Charles, doesn't mean you should be reckless." He gutted the animal.

d'Artagnan sighed. "I know, Pa. But I wasn't being reckless. It was better that I killed them then where I could, than have them stubble upon us in the night."

"We'll be to Paris in no more than a week if we keep like we have, and we'll not have to worry for that any longer." Alexandre paused with the rabbit and buried his face in his elbow as a set of coughs wracked his old body.

d'Artagnan was silent as he watched his father in worry. It was the wet season, and Alexandre had come down with a cough for the last month. It was this fear that pushed him to the decision on the pair of them heading to Paris. He didn't tell d'Artagnan, but he knew the boy suspected.

"I still don't understand why we're going there," d'Artagnan confessed. He took the skinned and gutted bunny from his father and ran the straight stick through it ass-through-mouth and put it over the open flame. "How are we to know that Paris is even still standing? It's been sixteen-years almost."

"It will be held." Alexandre said without any doubt, and his son looked at him dubiously. "The King's Musketeers are an elite force. They would protect the King with their lives, therefore, Louvre will be guarded. And I'm sure they worked around the city, clearing it of the walking dead and fortifying the walls."

"You have a lot of faith in these Musketeers," d'Artagnan rotated the rabbit, he could already smell the cooking meat and his stomach growled accordingly.

"I know their Captain." The old Gascon nodded. "Treville. He's a good and honourable man. He will help us once we reach the city."

"When was it last you saw him?"

"A year before the outbreak."

d'Artagnan asked no more questions and kept the obvious observation to himself: how did he know the man was still alive? Once the rabbit was cooked, d'Artagnan took his small knife and carved the meat. They ate as the sun grew lower in the sky, until Alexandre bid his son goodnight, and retired.

d'Artagnan licked the juices from his fingers and stocked the fire, his brown eyes dissecting each shadow that grew and darkened with the fading sun, until they were all left flickering in the small circle of light from the campfire.

He lowered himself to the ground, his back to the fire a blanket pulled over him and a hand placed on the hilt of his sword removed from its sheath. He didn't have to worry about the zombies. He always cleared the surrounding area of them before they made camp

He may be able to get bitten, but Alexandre would turn just like any other.

* * *

The two Gascon's moved at a steady pace, over the next four days. d'Artagnan shouldered most of the burden of their supplies. It had been at least two years since either had ridden a horse, let alone did they have a donkey or mule in their possession.

They pushed on later in the day than usual, trying to find a good space to camp. Walking parallel to the main road. They were shivering and soaked, the rain coming down heavy and hard after one day of peace. Thunder and lightning clashed and fought in the sky. It was thunderstorms like this one, that seemed to rile-up the dead. Perhaps it was the loud noise and flashing light.

They came upon it by happy chance, and small tool shed by the side of the road. They piled into the small space, forced to leave their packs outside to accommodate them.

"Brrr!" Alexander wiped his dripping face with his wet sleeve. "It's really coming down."

d'Artagnan grinned, his dark hair plastered to his skull. "How else are we supposed to bathe?"

"Ah, the privileges of life on the road." Alexandre gazed sadly through the darkness at his son, though the boy couldn't see it. He wished that he could give the lad the peaceful and carefree life that he deserved. Hopefully, Paris would do that for him.

A strike of lightning struck nearby, light briefly flickering through the cracks in the shed, before it was followed by the loud boom.

Alexandre had turned them recluse for the first ten-years of his son's life. It had been around that time, that they crossed paths with a community of people in the town called Pinon. Two-years, they had spent with these people. Two-years of a roof over their heads, a steady meal every day. It was the first time that d'Artagnan had seen kids his own age, or younger. In had been in those two-years that d'Artagnan had been taught how to read and write. It was in those two-years that d'Artagnan got to have his childhood, as unhindered as any kid could be in what the world was today.

It was two-years before a stupid mistake on no one's part, got d'Artagnan bit. Alexandre's heart had left him then, as he spent the last days with his dying son. As soon, the fever overran his body. The sickness invading it. And then, his last breath left him. Alexandre cried as he held the blade to his son's hairline, like he'd done his wife, preparing to send him into peace once and for all. Before he gasped back into life, his eyes still brown and passionate as ever. His skin the same dark-olive. His son had not died, he did not change in death. That was the first day Alexandre realized how truly special his son was. He did not die from the bite, but thrived. He was immune to the sickness. That was when Alexandre realized it wasn't safe to be around people any more. What they might do to his son if they found out this secret.

There wasn't much room in the space, and both were forced to stay standing. d'Artagnan just managed to start dozing, when there was a ominous cracking sound all but overhead. Alexandre understood what was happening first, and grabbed his son's soaked doublet, shoved open the shed door and threw them outside. They tumbled to the ground as the tree next to the shed came crashing down, smashing the shed into splinters.

"Whoa!" d'Artagnan gasped as he rose to his knees and then his feet from the mud, and saw the smouldering, smoking tree trunk snapped in half. He turned and held out his hands to his father. "That was close."

They both watched, as despite the rain, the smoulder turned into a true flame and the tree caught fire.

"Get the packs," Alexandre said. "If you can."

d'Artagnan nodded and turned to the wreckage, searching the debris of wood for their supplies. Finally, he spotted the shine from one of the buckles on one of their packs buried beneath and entanglement of branches. He took off his soaked and heavy cloak and hung it off a branch next to him. He bent and reached through the branches. His fingers just brushed the material. Straightening, he started to break the branches, sawing at the larger ones with his knife before breaking them by hand until there was a reasonable enough space. With both arms, head and shoulders, he plunged into the space, the rain pounding at his back.

"Charles!" Alexandre screamed as he saw the first walker as lightning struck. But d'Artagnan didn't hear and continued to contort between the branches of the tree to get at their packs. Alexandre drew his sword and killed the first, only to realize that there were more following. He got out his _main gauche_ as he slashed at one, then stabbed another through the eye with his dagger as it came nearly on top of him. All while he backed towards his son. "Charles!"

"What are you doing?" d'Artagnan shouted as he felt his father grabbing at him. He cried out in surprise and then pain, as he felt teeth tear into the flesh of his lower right hip, under the ridden-up hem of his doublet. He struggled from the tree and stumbled backwards, falling into the zombie that had taken a bite out of him. He twisted around as it clawed at him, and buried the knife in its ear. "Pa!" he screamed as he jumped to his feet. He pulled out his sword and took out the zombie in front of him, spinning and searching for his father.

He ran to the old man as he grappled with two walkers, using one to shield himself from another. d'Artagnan came up behind his father and thrust his sword, kebab-ing the pair through the skulls. Alexandre sighed in relief, slumping back tiredly against his son as they pushed the two dead from his sword.

Alexandre coughed as he turned to his son, only to have d'Artagnan cry out a second time at the zombie that came up behind him and bite the nape of his neck. There was a loud crack, almost like another tree cracking in half, and the zombie's head exploded. Both spun towards the muzzle flash in the rain.

There were six men, draped in heavy and dark cloaks, and hats. All sat astride horses. Alexandre edged in front of his son, as d'Artagnan resisted the urge to inspect at the festering bite wounds, and instead, kept his grip on his slick sword. It had been a miracle that pistol had gone off in this rain in the first place.

The man in front dismounted as the man next to him and they slowly approached the father and son. Stopping several feet in front of them. All d'Artagnan could see of leader was the blue eyes under the brim of his hat and above the edge of the dark bandana that covered his face in the flickering of the fired tree.

"Thank you, kind sir." Alexandre spoke politely, nodding his head lightly to their savoir. "You've saved us from our deaths."

The man nodded. "I am Athos of the King's Musketeers!" he swept aside the cloak on his right shoulder and revealed the scarred leather Fleur-de-lis pauldron there.

"Musketeers?" d'Artagnan repeated. Those were the men that his father always mentioned. "W—" Alexandre's hand on his shoulder stopped him from saying anything further.

"It's very nice to meet you. I've heard the Musketeers are honourable men."

"The boy," he turned his gaze to d'Artagnan. "He was bit."

d'Artagnan shifted uneasily behind his father and tightened his grip on his sword.

"He was not." Alexandre said smoothly. "Because of your interference."

The Musketeer shook his head. "I saw it." And he raised a second pistol from his belt.

"You are wrong, sir!" Alexandre shouted, moving in front of his son fully. "My son is fit and healthy!"

He shook his head. "I saw it! He's infected. He has to be put down."

"Leave us, at once!" the Gascon demanded, stepping forward.

The horses under the men shifted and snorted at the report of the shot.

"NO!" d'Artagnan screamed as he caught his falling father to the ground. "Pa! No!" he pushed his hands to the gushing wound on the man's stomach. Alexandre's moan of pain was swallowed by the rain.

"Charles," he rasped, staring up into his despairing son's eyes. "Son—Sur... vive..." and then his breath stopped, and his eyes became blank.

Blind fury tore through the teen. "You killed him!" he screamed at the two men still standing there. "Why?!" he pushed the old man from his lap and jumped to his feet, sword clutched in hand. "I'll kill you!" and he lunged for the nearest man. He ran the second man through, and the leader turned and ran for his horse. "I"LL KILL YOU ALL!" d'Artagnan screeched, kicking the man free of his sword and running after the horses, even as they men spurred them away fast.

d'Artagnan was finally forced to turn back as he quickly lost sight of them in the rain and distance. He turned and ran back to their camp. The horse of the man that he had killed was still there, abandoned. And his father was rising to his feet. For a brief moment, d'Artagnan had the childish thought that his father was alive again, but seconds later it came crashing down. He ran to the old Gascon, tackling him to the rain soaked ground.

He sat on its chest, his boney knees pinning its arms down, and his palm pressed to its forehead. Tears blurred his gaze as he stared down into his father's old, wrinkled face—its teeth snapping hungrily at him. His deep brown eyes were too bright.

d'Artagnan's hand shook as he gripped the dagger in his hand. A howl of sorrow ripped through his body and left his throat as he stabbed his father behind the ear. The creatures movements stilled and d'Artagnan was left gasping. He was forced from his grief, as he was grabbed from behind by the bandit that he had killed.

He grasped the wrists and flipped the zombie over his shoulder. And with a cry of rage, he planted his heel at the creature's throat, pinning it there to the watered ground. He saw red as he stomped the walker's snapping and snarling face. He stomped it until he felt the bone break beneath it, he stomped until it stopped its struggle, he stomped until the thing beneath his foot didn't resemble a face any more.

The corpse beneath his feet, the first human he had ever killed.

d'Artagnan looked up into the gray and darkened sky, the rain pelting his face heavily, blinding him. He howled. Even the thunder couldn't drown him out.

 _Charles,_

He dug a grave at the side of the road. With his bare hands, with an edged rock, his knife. The ground was soaked with rain, the normally packed dirt made soft mud. The cold rain hammered at his tired body, the lightning and thunder shook the ground and split the air. Night slowly turned into grey skies of the coming sun smothered behind thick clouds. He was shivering and shuddering so badly that he couldn't keep hold of the slick rock. His fingers were numb, like he wished his heart could be.

He had grave-robbed his father, sobbing fresh tears over the old. The hot track's blazing over his frozen face. The rain finally stopped as he dragged his father through the mud and into the hole, the best he was able to do with the state of the ground and his desperate tools.

It wasn't the kind of burial that his father deserved. Alexandre was a great man, he deserved to be honoured, but d'Artagnan wasn't able to give him that. The thought hit him hard as he pushed the surrounding mounds of mud onto his father's corpse, and he staggered back onto his arse when finished.

 _Son_ —

He had stared up into the fleeting sky for too long, and forced himself back onto his feet. He needed to get the packs. Anything that they had ever owned was in those packs. He worked for a couple hours, sawing away those bigger branches, until the simple thought hit him. Dig. So he dug underneath the tree and its branches and pulled out the packs.

He was shivering and exhausted, soaked and cold to the bone. His bite wounds burned like fire. He claimed the abandoned horse that had decided that the distraught boy was better company than being alone in the woods with eaters. He strapped their packs to the saddle, along with its previous owner's belongings and led them the way they had been coming and the way the Musketeers had ran.

His father was dead, buried in the ground. It had been Musketeers who had done this. Alexandre said that Treville was a good and honourable man. If his men were out murdering the very sparse humans in existence, than d'Artagnan could only think that the Captain was dead.

 _Survive..._

For the first time in Charles Xavier d'Artagnan's life, he was alone.

* * *

Milday sat upon the crumbling wall of the ruins outside of Paris. Her legs were crossed primly and swung over the edge, just out of reach of the groaning, grasping walkers below. Idly, she flicked pebbles at the creatures as she waited for her goons to report back to her. Upon her close examinations of these creatures, she had discovered that they didn't blink. Even as she struck one in the eye with the pebble, it just kept on scrambling for her.

She just waited as four men rode across the only bridge when there were six previously, before three dismounted and started killing the walkers at her feet. Their leader, Gaudet, approached, still upon his horse, as his men teased the last walker away, and played with it between them like a pack of bullies upon a runt.

"Well?" she questioned.

"We came across a promising pair, a man and a lad. The boy was bit, I killed the old man under the name Athos." Gaudet said. "If he's the one, you're husband will be surprised that he should have been looking over his shoulder."

Milady smiled and leapt nimbly down from the wall. "Then I shall have to meet our young lad and see him further enticed to the task. If he survives the bite, than we have finally found our quarry. The Cardinal shall be very pleased."

* * *

 _Survive_...

d'Artagnan could feel the fever taking over his body. He felt groggy and foggy, as he dragged his feet onward. He was too out of himself to feel the human-eyes watching him, tracking him. He wanted to collapse. He needed to find somewhere to hold up. Somewhere to clean his bite wounds. Somewhere to let the fever take him, and hope that he overcame it.

He'd thought of camping up in a tree, it wouldn't be the first time. But then that would leave the horse vulnerable to the zombies, and he needed the animal if he had any hope of making it to Paris like his father had wanted.

"Ahhh!" The horse's skitter of startlement jerked d'Artagnan to confused attention. "AHHH!" his eyes widened at the high-pitch shriek of fear. "Help! Somebody! Please!"

d'Artagnan ran, his feet moving absent his brain, and with a energy reserve he thought he'd already exhausted. He shoved through the wet brush and uneven ground. He paused for only a brief second to take in the desperate scene in front of him.

The owner of a scream, a dark-haired woman, was balance precariously on top a pair of fallen trees, three walkers surrounded her, grabbing tirelessly through the branches at her ankles, clawing. Their hungry teeth snapping for the close flesh.

d'Artagnan drove his sword through the back of the head of the closest zombie, the blade coming out its eye. He pulled it free and grabbed the second one, pulling it from the branches. It changed its target and snapped at him. With a cry of exertion, he brought his sword overhead and killed the zombie with a downward stroke.

He panted, and struggled to free his blade from the creature's skull.

The woman let out a shriek as the last walker managed to grab her ankle and dragged her down, crashing to the ground. d'Artagnan abandoned his sword and leapt over to the other side of the tree, and tackled the zombie from the woman as it was about to take a bit of her pale flesh. He drove his knife up under the zombie's chin.

The green-eyed woman grasped the tree branches in shield and support as she watched the young teen stumble to his feet and waver as he looked back at her. He waved his hand non-threateningly.

"Don' worry. You're safe now." He promised in a heavy voice.

"Th-thank you. I—"

d'Artagnan's world was suddenly dumped on its side, as some invisible force of the fever knocked him over the head. He dropped to the ground on his side by the dead zombie he'd just killed.

Her eyes widened and she scrambled to his side, grabbing him. "What's wrong?" She jerked back at the blood that saturated his side back. "You're bitten!"

"No." d'Artagnan mumbled in denial as his eyes flickered. He tried to stay awake, to fight the fevered pull. "It's not what you... think..." and then his world was gone.

"Hey. Hey!" Milady shook the teen harshly, but the only response was a moan. "He's out!" she called into the empty woods. "Get him onto the horse."

The man who had stayed behind to keep an eye on the teen, and another man from the same group on horseback, appeared from where they had been hiding in cover during the entire act and picked up the slight boy.

They threw him over his stolen horse's saddle, and rode the mile and a half back to the ruins that stood almost a mile outside of Paris.

Nursemaid was hardly a caring creature inside of her, but she had a job to do, and so she did. He was young, but if the boy could survive the bite, than what did his age matter?

The rumour had come from the small community that managed to survive all these years in Pinon, even after their Comte had abandoned them. Athos had kicked her from the same embrace after he found out that it was her who had killed Thomas. Milady had survived, growing up as she had, she was far from defenceless. She'd killed her first man when she was fourteen. She slew her way back to Paris. Still married, Athos thought her dead, eaten by the biters, and Milady sought revenge from under Cardinal Richelieu's robes while enacting his agenda.

* * *

It was almost four days before the fever broke.

Milady had watched as he slowly became weaker, his breathes shallower. She looked down at the sweaty and fevered, handsome face of the youth with sour disappointment. And was finally left to deal with the fact that it had just been a rumour after all, or they had the wrong Gascon boy.

"A pity." She murmured as she rose a knife above his stilled body. "What use you could have been, if you hadn't been bitten. Your skill—I could have used such a soldier. Oh, and were you to grow into a man..." she brought the knife down with force.

d'Artagnan gasped and coughed, suddenly coming back to life. Milady let out a yelp and barely had time to divert the striking blade. She quickly tucked it away as he blinked his eyes open and looked around the faint light of the sun that stroked through the crumbling stone room where they resided.

Confused by his surroundings, not remembering how he'd gotten there. His eyes widened as they landed on the woman staring at him in shock, and he jerked up and scrambled away.

"Who are you? Where am I?" he demanded.

Milady gave her head a little shake and swallowed. "I—you saved me, remember?" She was still trying to come to terms with the fact that the Gascon had actually survived his bites. For years they had been searching for such a person. And now he sat before her. Her expression was genuine as she looked across at him; excitement, wonder.

There was a quiet moment as his brown eyes flickered across her face, and then he nodded. He could vaguely remember a woman up a tree. That must be her.

"I found your horse on the road." She continued to spin the tale. "And I soon found this place."

He nodded, silent still. His eyes darted around the room, taking everything in, and seeing that his weapons belt was next to the blanket that had been his bed, in easy reach. "Thank you." He finally told her with great sincerity, and she gave him a small smile in return. " _Where_ are we, exactly?"

"Abandoned ruins near Paris."

He straightened at the mention of the city. "Paris?"

Milady nodded. "It's some more than half a mile away, perhaps. Were you heading there?" she feigned ignorance.

He swallowed at the sudden emotion that welled inside of him, and looked away as fresh tears pricked his eyes. It had been his father's idea. Because his cough hadn't been getting better, d'Artagnan knew, though Alexandre had tried to hide it.

"Mm-hmm. My father and I..." he said faintly and found he couldn't say anything more.

But she nodded and gave a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry." She murmured, knowingly. She briefly wondered now, if perhaps the boy's father was immune to the virus as well—but these thoughts were all but useless now, now that the father was dead.

Finally, allowed himself to shift back onto the blanket from the cold dirt floor. He still felt shaky and weak from the fever. And his two bite wounds would still cause him hindrance for a while longer like any wound.

There was a flush to his cheeks that had nothing to do with his recent fever, but everything to do with the sharp green eyes that were fastened to him. "Why?" he eventually asked her in confusion. "Why did you try to save me, when bites always change the person? Why risk yourself like that for no reasonable reason?"

"You saved my life," she answered. "I thought that I owed you something, at least."

He shook his head slowly in disbelief. "I did not think people like you still existed in this world. How have you survived?"

"What about you?" she asked in return. "You ran to help me, even with the state that you were in. You didn't know what you would find in those trees, but you came to my aid anyways."

"What is the point of being strong, if you don't defend the weak." He said, repeating something that Alexandre frequently told him growing up—and then his eyes widened as he realized exactly what he'd said. "Not offence meant, _Mademoiselle."_

She gave him a tight smile and looked away. "Technically, it is _Madame."_

"Oh, I apologize." He said quickly. "You're husband is gone as well?"

Milady shook her head. "As much as I may wish it!" she said with a forcefulness. His eyes widened in shock. "I am sorry, I—" she turned away. "My husband is a cruel man. I met him when all this sickness first started. It was the end of days, and we married quickly without getting to know each other. He protected me, kept me alive all these years. But if I had know the kind of man that he truly was, I never would have bound myself to him." Faux tears brimmed her green eyes. "He carries authority within Paris, and uses it to lure people into a sense of security before he pilfers and beats or murders them. He went out today with his men to do such things on any innocence he might pass on their way to a safe haven in Paris, and I used that to my opportunity to escape from him."

"What kind of authority does this man hold, to wield over such people?" d'Artagnan asked in horror. It was an automatic response in him to place a comforting hand upon her shoulder.

Out of sight, Milady allowed herself a wicked grin before she turned to him, weepy. "He holds a place within the Musketeers, the Captain's Lieutenant." She whispered.

He paused. "A Musketeer?" It had been Musketeers who had killed his father. A group outside of Paris that had come upon them on the main road to the city. "What—" he had to pause to control himself of the reawakened fury that returned to layer on top of his grief. "What is your husband's name?"

"Athos." She said. "Do you..." she trailed off at his expression.

"Athos?" he hissed. "Athos is the man that murdered my father." He pushed to his feet with the fresh rage. "I vow to kill this man! He deserves to die! Murdering and stealing from people trying to survive and find safety, abusing you—he does not deserve to breath this air upon this spoiled earth!"

"You can't leave now!" she protested in surprise.

"He does not deserve to take another breath!" he growled, and bent to pick up his weapons belt. His head grew lightened and he wavered, suddenly off-balance.

Milady grabbed him and helped him sit down. "In your state..." she gasped, her hands still upon him, "You can't. You need at least a couple days to recover your strength."

He panted in frustration at such a hindrance.

Her peck on his cheek startled him. "Thank you." She gently pushed his down.

He flushed at such attention and looked away. Not in his life had anyone treated him as such.

This time, she kissed his lips. "If only I'd been able to marry a man like you." She whispered wistfully. "I've never met anyone kinder or stronger."

"I'm just doing what any real man might." He turned his head and looked at her.

She was such a beautiful woman, despite how un lady-like her appearance. Her appearance was dishevelled, her pale skin dirty, her hair unkempt from her previous encounter wit the zombies. The most beautiful woman he'd ever lain his eyes on.

He felt prideful of the things she was saying of him. And when she leaned down and kissed him for a third time, he felt himself being peeled back by her. He reached up, his fingers curling around the nape of her neck beneath her hair and pulled her on top of him—gaining confidence as she continued to kiss him. She came more than willing.

It had been such a long time since she had such a young and handsome lover. He couldn't have been more than seventeen, she was sure. But he looked the man. He was tall and lean, his body tone and defined of muscle made by a person on the constant move. If anything, he was almost too skinny.

D'Artagnan had never kissed anyone before, not a girl or a woman alike. He'd been too young to be interested in girls when he and his father stayed in the Pinon camp for those two-years. And afterward, he'd been too busy surviving and looking after his father to think much on it.

And right now, he didn't think about it. For once, he didn't want to. He wanted his mind to just stop, his heart to do the same. And so he focused on this woman and the pleasure that she gave him. He focused on this brief moment in time where he didn't have to remember that his father was dead, that he would be forever alone in the world again, that soon he would have Athos blood covering his hands.

* * *

She lay against his uninjured side on the blanket by the fire afterwards. He'd turned his anger and want of revenge into a passion directed towards her that had left her breathless and headless. The only other man able to make that of her, was Athos.

d'Artagnan had become headless as well. He lay with her, listless. He was liquid, calm and smooth. He'd never felt such pleasure in his entire life.

"How is it possible?" she murmured in wonder as she stared at the bandage wrapped around his lower torso. "I've never heard of anyone surviving the bite before."

"Mmm." Was his wordless response as his fingers mindlessly traced the curve of her hip. "Neither have I, besides myself."

She leaned up on her elbow and watched as his doze turned into sleep, his hand stilling on her waist. She smiled. Gaudet would have already gotten word to the Cardinal by now, him and his men having been outside in the shadows d'Artagnan's entire fever.

There was such possibility for the teen to complete the task of riding her of Athos, but once the Cardinal found out about the boy, he'd be eager to get the subject into his hands. Of course, Milady's curiosity was almost overwhelming as well. But still, it was a pity to waste such potential.

* * *

True to form, d'Artagnan was ready to go the next morning. After eating some food found in the taken horse's saddlebag, they both mounted the stead and headed for Paris.

d'Artagnan had asked Alexandre what Paris had been like, when he'd visited a year before the outbreak, on their journey to the very city. Alexandre obliged him, and told him of the crowds at market, the bustle of people, all the stands and their wares. There were things that d'Artagnan had never heard about, there were things that he had but never laid his eyes on.

But now... now he had no one to tell him of such things. To explain what things were that he'd never seen before. For the first time in his entire life, he was alone. There was not a day that hadn't gone by that he hadn't seen his father, hugged his father, spoken to his father. And now the man was just gone, gone forever. Never to joke or laugh again, tell his son not to be reckless or chew with his mouth closed.

While Milady had given him comfort and purpose in that close embrace the previous day, he nevertheless felt the crushing weight of loneliness upon him, even as she hugged him from behind upon the horse. But he had a purpose, no longer looking for a safe haven in Paris, he sought only the death of Athos of the King's Musketeers. That man had taken everything that d'Artagnan had cherished in the entire world away, and he was going to take Athos' life in repayment.

It wouldn't be enough, it would never be enough—but he had to start somewhere.

Milady was a Godsend to him. She nursed him through the fever, she was a resident of Paris and knew her way around. Both their lives depended on each other now.

Twenty-feet from the gate, two Red Guards stepped forward and ordered their halt. d'Artagnan reined the horse in, his heart pounding in his chest as he took in the tall stone wall that bordered Paris. Spiked blockades were place everywhere, a secondary barrier against the zombies.

Alexandre had said that Paris would thrive, would be reinforced. He'd been right, too bad the old man wasn't alive to see. To lead his only son into Safety's arms, instead of have him walk into Revenge's cold embrace.

They were ordered to dismount and they did so.

d'Artagnan faced the Guard, his posture none-threatening. Milady stood behind him and nodded to Gaudet, dressed in his proper uniform as Captain of the Red Guards, as she retrieved the hilted dagger from her dress.

Pain suddenly exploded in the back of d'Artagnan head, and he gave a soft groan, dropping to his knees as they gave beneath him. Gaudet laughed and grinned down at him. d'Artagnan didn't recognize the face, Gaudet's lips twisted mockingly at him—but those eyes were all he needed to see. They were the eyes of his father's murderer. And then darkness spread behind his eyes and he fell to the side.

"You know what to do," she told them, flipping the blade in her fingers before resheathing it in the folds of her dress. "And do be gentle, he's precious cargo after all—very precious."

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _ **Note:**_ _And there is the first chapter of this precariously built story, for which I have no idea where I am taking this. I feel like I'm out of my mind, but I'll give it my best shot. I have few of the vaguest ideas for the next chapter, so fingers-crossed that it goes well._

 _I know everyone's probably all sick of this, the fact that in I'm sure half my stories for The Musketeers, are referenced to the Pilot Episode. What can I say? It's my favourite episode, I feel like so many things can be built upon it._

 _Please review? I still have need to know exactly how lucid I am. LOL. :)_

y


	3. Chapter 2: ('Another sweet fool')

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and any zombie concerns.**

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):** torture, human experimentation, cannibalism. [graphic].

 **Note: So, finally some Inseparables in this chapter, but first... d'Artagnan!**

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Life is Death is Dead**  
 _Chapter 2:_ —

A soft moan left the teen's lips as he finally dragged himself back into a conscious state—his _un_ conscious bout sudden and forcefully put. He did not move, and tried to gather his bearings about him through the radiating pain bouncing through the back of his skull. Eventually, he cracked open his stiff lids, but the room was too dim for him to distinguish anything. Soon, they slipped closed again. His breathing was the only noise he heard as he collected himself.

The creak of metal hinges made him twitch. He cracked open his eyes, but all he saw in the dimness was a blurry shadowed contour of a woman crouching in front of him.

"Hey," a soft feminine voice called to him. "Hey, wake up sweet boy."

It took his a moment to recognize the voice. "What 'appened?" he croaked. He wasn't immediately alert and suspicious of his circumstance, despite having grown up in a world where people were desperate or made cruel and turned against their own kind.

Alexandre had become cautious after he and his wife were driven out of their home by thugs whom they had offered help to, and after Ella died and he was left with an infant son to take care of in a ruined world—his fears and wariness were warranted. An old man and a baby were easy targets. Raising d'Artagnan had been the hardest and most rewarding thing that Alexandre had ever done. When d'Artagnan was ten, and Alexandre was able to find safety and protection in the community of Pinon, his outlook had changed, and therefore, so had d'Artagnan's. He always told his son that the strong were made strong for a reason, to help those who couldn't help themselves. To offer a hand, and a seek no reward. In a world of what it was today, it was integrity like that, that would save the human race.

It was what had made d'Artagnan race towards danger at a strange woman's fearful scream. And it was her own kindness returned onto him, that had him trusting her, even when he should have had some bit of caution at such a timely and fruitful encounter.

"I've brought you home." Milady murmured.

"Home?" d'Artagnan repeated, like the word was almost foreign to him. The only home he had ever known was his father—and Alexandre was dead now, and so was his home. Grief chocked up his throat and he made a small noise in the back of his throat.

Milady sighed and rolled her eyes. "I said: wake up!" and she grabbed the bucket beside her, and upturned the contents onto the dazed teen. Perhaps she had stuck him harder than necessary, or he simple couldn't take a hit like she had expected.

The freezing water electrified him. He gave a sharp gasp and a wracking cough, flailing. "Wha—! Why? Why?" he cried out, struggling to sit up. He swiped the soaked bangs from his dripping face, and heard an odd sound of clanking chains.

He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear his vision, water drops glistened on his long lashes at the sudden candle flame that appeared between them.

She snapped her fingers in front of his face and he gave a little jerk. "Are you focused now? Hm?" Her tone had changed from the soft lilt she had before, the tender tone. Now, her voice was haughty and harsh.

He looked at her through the warm glow of the candle flame. She was bathed, her skin clean and pale. Her dark hair was thick, combed, curled; pinned at the sides and loose down the back. Dress was clean and more elegant than the last. Through the unpleasant smell of what now was apparently a cell, he could smell the sickly sweet of her jasmine perfume.

"I don't understand." He confessed, his brown eyes darting from her to around the small circle of light that lit his cell.

"Of course you don't... just another sweet fool." She chucked him under the chin. "You... can survive a risen's bite! Do you realize what an amazing and impossible thing that is?"

His eyes widened as reality seemed the smack him. And that was when he noticed the shackles around each of his wrists, chaining him to the wall behind. He jumped to his feet and had a moment of pure panic as he pulled heedlessly and uselessly at the chains.

"Let me out of here! What are you doing?"

She stood and stepped back, watching him in mild amusement. "This is your home now... Charles Xavier d'Artagnan."

He suddenly stopped and spun to her. The only person who had ever know his full and true name, was his father. "How—?" Realization dawned on him in some sick, dreadful way—he didn't even know this woman's name as she seemed to know his.

She smiled and blew him a kiss as she backed from his cell, out the door, and turned on her heel to disappear down the dark hall, closing the door behind her.

"No! You can't do this to me!" he screamed after her, but the only response he got was a disconnected chuckle that floated back to his down the hall.

He stayed standing there, his chest heaving, looking out into the blackness beyond his barred cell door. His head was white with panic and fear, his body frozen in place.

He remembered the first time his father made him kill one of the dead, when he was finally old enough to comprehend what these bumbling things that looked like people, but acted like monsters, were. He'd been seven, his life had been as sheltered as Alexandre could make it in those days. He'd held a _main gauche_ both his hands, them shaking so hard as his father restrained a zombie in front of him. It was a girl. She only looked to be a teenager. Her skin was rotten, her hair missing in clumps, she had no lips and her teeth were on a permanent show of a gnashing grin. He couldn't move. He was frozen, shaking with absolute fear and horror. His heart trembled and his mind was blank.

And then suddenly, with a grim expression, Alexandre released his hold on the zombie, and it lurched towards his young son. The scream was a strangled sound in the boy's throat. Its groans sounded horrible, the clicking of its snapping jaw as it drew closer, fast. He'd pissed his pants, and the knife fell to the ground from his trembling fingers. Alexandre screamed his son's name and rushed forward, his sword drawn as the zombie fell upon his son. And he'd feared it too late, that he had just killed his only son, the last piece of his wife—until suddenly, the zombie stilled. Alexandre shoved the body aside, to find his son tremble beneath, eyes wide but dry, the knife sticking out from the zombie's skull through the corner of its eye. Alexandre grabbed his son up and held him in his lap, clutching him close, his own breath trembling. d'Artagnan's next encounter was entirely different.

When his teeth started to chatter and shivers wracked his body, d'Artagnan kicked himself into motion and the plan of free himself. For the next several hours, as the wick and wax of the candle slowly burned away, he tried to do just that.

He fingered the bolts driven into the brick that anchored the chains in thought. And then, for a long time, he scraped at the brick around the bolts with the sharp corner to the shackles on the outside of his wrist where the chain was attached. The cell filled with the sound of scraping, as the brick sprinkled away like grains of sand. He worked one bolt and them the next, ignoring the ache the sound caused to his thumping head.

He looped the chain around his arms and grasped hold of the links before he planted one foot, and then the next on the wall. He leveraged himself onto the wall, then pushed his feet and pulled with the rest of the body. But the only movement was that of his shoulder sockets. He'd hardly made a dent in the brick. It was no use...

With a sound of despair, he thumped his forehead against the wall in defeat before he slumped down to the floor. Minutes later, the candle's flame sputtered and extinguished as it reached the end of the wick and it cast d'Artagnan back into the darkness.

"LET ME OUT OF HERE!" he screamed at the top of his voice. It echoed sharp around the cell and down the hall. And then there was a beat of silence filled with his breathing—and then the creak of metal hinges.

His breath seized in his throat and his body tensed as he rose to his feet in anticipation of whomever was coming his way. Through the darkened hall, he could see the faint glow of a torch that slowly appeared to be coming closer. He knew he wasn't just expecting Milady, not by the echo of several foot-sets.

He had nothing to defend himself with. All he had ever owned was stripped from him but the clothes on his back. The last things in the world that Alexandre had touched, were gone. He forced back the tears that suddenly pricked his eyes—he would not let them see him cry, even at the loss of his father.

Finally, the group halted at his cell door, and he blinked into the returned light as the door was open—and he realized it hadn't been locked in the first place. Two Guards stepped in and stationed themselves on either side of the door, putting their torches in the brackets next to them. A tall, gray-haired man with sharp gray eyes entered after them wearing black and red robes with a heavy crucifix around his neck. Milady stepped in next to him.

The man inspected him with calculating, piercing, and cold eyes. "You're sure he's the one?" he asked the woman. "He doesn't look like much."

"Oh, he's the one, Cardinal." Milady said. "I've seen it with my own eyes."

"Let me out of here!" d'Artagnan shouted. "You have no right to lock me in here. No right!"

"It's my right as I please!" Richelieu returned and back-handed the boy. d'Artagnan hissed as his rings cut open his cheek. "You are nothing. The only value you hold, is the blood in your veins—and soon that will be mine." The Gascon glared at him through his bangs. "Lemay!" he barked out the open cell door. "What's the delay?"

There was clattering and a huffing breath as a man rushed down the hall and into the cell. Over his shoulder was a bag, and in his arms was a small crate. He was a plain looking man, standing thin, with a trimmed beard covering his chin.

Lemay locked eyes with d'Artagnan and the man's eyes widened at the sight of the teen. He gulped and turned his gaze away. "Apologies, Your Eminence."

"Do what you must." The Cardinal commanded, with a flick of his wrist. "Report _if_ he survives the bite."

"Yes, Your Eminence." Lemay bowed his head lightly over his full arms and stepped from the doorway. Richelieu swept front the dank cell with a sweep of his robes.

"Have fun," Milady sing-songed as she followed after her Master. Leaving the Gascon in the company of Lemay and the two Red Guards.

d'Artagnan watched as Lemay set down the crate in the middle of the room and knelt down beside it, setting his bag down as well. He steadily focused on sorting through the hidden contest and refused to meet the teen's gaze.

"You don't have to do this." d'Artagnan tried to reason with the man. He cleared his throat for the fearful tremble. "You can just let me go—I won't cause trouble. I promise! Please!"

The doctor took a deep breath and evened his shoulders. "You've been bitten before."

"You're wrong!" d'Artagnan denied. "It was just a simple fever."

"Cut his shirts away." Lemay ordered and the two Guards stepped forward, one pulling out a dagger from his belt.

"No. No!" the teen was only able to back up a step before he hit the wall behind him. His tensed, his fists clenched as they approached. He struck out with fists and feet, but he was restricted by his chains. He managed a glancing kick, but was quickly remanded with a punch.

"Don't hurt him!" Lemay snapped. "I need him in top condition."

The punch made him senseless enough that they had time to cut up both his sleeves and his clothes fluttered to the floor. He yelped as they shoved him face first on floor. A hand at the back of his head forced his face into the floor, and a pressure across his back shoulders.

"Let's see those wounds, eh?" Lemay approached.

d'Artagnan writhed in their hold, and they just pressed his face harder into the dirty stone. Lemay knelt at his hip and took away the soiled bandage from around his waist. He inspected the wound closely. It was very distinctly a bite mark. He could see each individual groove of the teeth, gouged deep into the flesh. It seemed to be healing nicely like any other wound, with no abnormalities made by the saliva had seemed to carry the virus and spread it through the blood stream.

"And what of the other one?" he asked. d'Artagnan wasn't forthcoming with its location and Lemay was forced to search for himself. "Ah. You've been bitten more than this round I see. The scaring is faint but unmistakable." Lemay murmured. And then he found it, hidden at the nape of the boy's neck by his long, entangled hair. "Cut away the hair so that I can see."

"No!" d'Artagnan bucked as they shifted their hold on him to heed the doctor's command and for a brief instant, he was made free. But only for an instant, before he felt the full weight of a man on his back and shoulders, and the other gripping either side of his head to keep it still. The one on his back, cut away his raven locks with a dagger.

Lemay inspected this wound as well, whish seemed more ragged than the last, but healing just as nice. "Alright." He stood up and back. "Get him up on the hook."

d'Artagnan put up a knew fight at the sound of whatever this 'hook' was, and again found himself backhanded. One Red Guard held him as the other took a metal pole about five feet long, and ran it through a wider link on both of his chains before fingering a screw in place to hold them. Then his poled hands were raised high above his head and the rod was secured to a pair of hooks that had hung, bolted to the ceiling the entire time.

d'Artagnan was a tall boy. Only fifteen and malnourished from never living in a steady life, he hit his growth spurt young and seemed gangly. And while, yes, he was a young awkward teenager, he was forced to grow up fast, and he fought like an experienced swordsman, if somewhat raw. Despite his tall height, he was forced onto his toes.

"Hold him." Lemay turned to his box.

"Aargh!" d'Artagnan managed to kick one Guard in the shoulder before one man grabbed his legs and knelt their on the floor, anchoring him. He gritted his teeth as he felt the strained in his wrists and shoulders. The other man held him from behind, an arm thrown over his shoulder and across his chest, the other around his middle.

Lemay came back with a small knife and a couple of jars. d'Artagnan was forced to watch as the doctor cut a diagonal cut on the side of the his arm and held the jar underneath the dribbling blood, filling up. And then moved to the teen's other arm and he carefully drew the tip of the dagger across the prominent vein just before the crease of his elbow, and held a new jar under that, collecting the blood straight from the source.

He sealed the jars and put them back in the crate, and when he turned back to the teen, it was with bandages in his hands. He treated the wounds he had caused. Lemay looked at him for a long moment and the Gascon glared back, before the doctor turned away.

"Get him some food." Lemay said to the two Guards who finally released the teen. "If he refuses—force him. I'll return within the hour." And he picked up his bag and crate and left through the open grate.

One Guard left and came back soon after with a cup of water and a bowl of gruel. d'Artagnan steadfast refused the offered food, and as Lemay ordered, they forced the food and drink down his throat. It was a messy affair, that left them all soiled and d'Artagnan unsettled. But, he'd eaten more than half the bowl in the end. He'd clamped his mouth shut, but they'd plugged his nose. He'd bee forced to gasp for much needed breath, wherein he opened his mouth and they forced the gruel in his mouth before clamping a hand over his mouth. This was how each meal would go.

Afterward, they left him hanging hooked, but not before one literally spat on him.

d'Artagnan used the time left to him before Lemay's return, to try and free himself. It was useless, but he didn't care. His position like this was even more secure than how he had woken up. But he knew what was going to be coming next and he wanted no part in it.

Lemay returned once again with his crate and bag, with the two Red Guards who were also carrying sealed crates themselves. d'Artagnan gulped as he watched them. In the silence, he could hear the faint and muffled groans and grinding teeth coming from the two sealed crates that the Guards had carried in and set down.

One of the Red Guards opened his crate and Lemay handed him a large metal clamp from his bag. The Guard took it, and reached into the crate, securing the clamp. When he rose it, holding the handles with both hands, the clamp was secured around the brow. It was a man's head, severed neatly at the neck, its brainstem in intact, the hole ragged. It continued to groan, its jaw working.

The Red Guard handed the head over to Lemay, who approached the boy.

"Stay away from me!" d'Artagnan pushed back on his toes as far as he could to retreat away from the biting head, but moment's later his soft grip on the floor broke and he swung back gently forward and into the seeking mouth.

He stifled a cry as it clamped down onto the flesh about his right ribs. Lemay held it there, making sure it got a good bit, nice and deep, before he pulled the head away. The teen watched the grotesque sight of his flesh fall out the end of the zombie's chopped throat. It was something that he would never be able to un-see.

"Those things aren't the monsters in this world!" d'Artagnan spat at Lemay. "It's men like you!"

Lemay flinched but said nothing. He might have even looked apologetic as he turned and handed back the head to the Guard, before he retrieved another head from the other Guard. This one was distinctly a woman.

d'Artagnan kicked at him, and the Red Guards instantly rushed forward to hold him still. The Gascon threw his head away and made a moan as Lemay brought the head to his shoulder, so close to his face. He could smell its dead flesh. He gagged, his head turned away, even as he flinched as the teeth sunk into the flesh.

Those were just the first bites in a line of many.

Lemay took the zombie away, and handed it back to the Red Guard, before going back to his supplies and the zombie crates were sealed again. He returned with some wine and bandages. He cleaned the bite on d'Artagnan's shoulder immediately, but he let the one on his ribs feaster for a while longer, to let the saliva soak into his flesh.

Then Lemay settled himself down, his notebook and quill in his lap. It was the waiting game now.

Lemay was sickened with himself by what he was doing and going to be made to do to the teenager. He was just a kid, unlucky that Milady had finally found him after about three years of following the rumour that had circulated from the survived community in Pinon. But the Cardinal would kill him if he didn't comply, and it was for the boy's sake as well.

He would be hard-pressed to make a meeting with Captain Treville. Now that after all these years with the virus rampaging through France and the rest of the world, the Cardinal would not let him leave when there was so much to do and learn of the Gascon. What was so special about him that let him survive the bite that was fatal to everyone else? Could such a thing be transferred to another person, or did they have to be born with the immunity?

The scientist in him was fascinated and excited at such a subject and all that could be learned. The physician in him was sickened and appalled. The father in him...

Lemay watched d'Artagnan closely, noting down the symptoms that presented themselves and at what time intervals by his timepiece. But it wasn't until d'Artagnan couldn't even hold himself up, as the fever ravaged his body, did Lemay order the Guards to release him from the hook.

He bathed the boy's head with a cool cloth, he checked the bite wounds, kept him covered and warm with a blanket, made him drink tea and herbs. But the fever seemed to get worse and worse. His breath turned rapid and ragged. Lemay repeatedly lifted his eyelids and checked his irises; but the continued to stay dark brown.

Lemay's own heart paused in beat as d'Artagnan finally exhaled and didn't inhale afterward. He checked the boy's pulse but there was none. He was dead. Panic filled the doctor for a brief blinding moment, before he remembered Milady's report on the matter and that she had thought the exact same thing. But then, moment's later, he was alive again.

When d'Artagnan gasped for breath, coming alive again, Lemay jerked back, wide-eyed. He stared at the dazed and blinking boy in utter amazement. It was true, the boy could survive the bite! He felt excitement in his chest.

"Report to the Cardinal," he ordered one of the Guards, "Tell him the boy survived the bite!" one of the men rushed away to do just that, as shocked as the rest of them. "You truly are an amazing boy, do you know that? Special indeed."

d'Artagnan silently looked over at him from where he lay, sweat still clinging to his brow, his hair cut in uneven tufts—hatred consumed his brown eyes. Eyes that used to be filled with love and honour and humour and hope.

Lemay's expression dropped as he remembered exactly what he had just done to the boy. If he could only tell him... but it wouldn't be possible, the risk of him being found out was too great. He was a trusted man in Richelieu's court, privy to his darkest secrets—just like this one—a spy for Captain Treville and the Musketeers, and Queen Anne. He couldn't be caught or suspected.

* * *

The three Inseparables rode in a small spaced cluster along the main road back to Paris. Their journey had been halted for the lightning storm some two weeks beforehand. Now, they couldn't be more than two days from the city.

They were forced to rein in as they came across a block on the road consisting of six deaders.

"Alright," Athos, the blue-eyed Musketeer Lieutenant (the true one, not the Red Guards impersonator) sighed as he surveyed the scene. "Looks like we're going to have to clear a path."

Porthos, a tall and broad man groaned from behind his left shoulder in complaint. "Do we 'ave to? Can't we just ride over 'em?"

"As well-trained as these horses are," he said dryly, "They would only run over these bodies if in a panicked frenzy."

"A little labour never hurt anyone, Porthos." Their third companion Aramis said, a young Spaniard. A grin tugged his lips as he looked over at the dark-skinned man, "With your arse so padded, you could clearly use it."

"The only thing I choose to hear from that, is that you stare at my arse!" Porthos rose his chin. "I'm flattered!"

Aramis chuckled and shook his head. It was a distasteful task, but these day's not an uncommon one. He kicked his leg over the saddle horn to the other side and slid smoothly from the saddle and to the ground. It had been quiet for the last couple hours, so off course something like this had to of come across their path. Porthos and Athos joined him on the ground. The horses stayed their place, without being tethered.

There were nine bodies in total, all in various states of decomposition and decapitation. They slowly walked through the carnage and what must have been a fearful and fast fight.

"Some bugger was angry." Porthos commented, looking down upon a body whose head was smashed into something unrecognizable.

"Can you blame them?" Aramis asked softly. The two other men looked over to him standing at the side of the road—and the marked grave that couldn't be more than a fortnight old. The Spaniard crossed himself and said a prayer for the poorly departed.

"It must of happened in the storm," Athos noted, turned towards the downed tree over a bed of broken shed. The trunk was splintered and blackened where the lightning had struck it. He knelt next to it and inspected the broken and sawed branches, fingering them, and the burrow that was dug beneath the fallen tree. "They clearly dug for something."

Aramis said a prayer for the biters as well, because though whatever the bite had turned them into, they were people once; with families and lovers and lives. Before he tightened his gloves and took a hold on one of the deader's with Athos and moved him from the path, then returned to another.

Porthos grabbed the ankles of the one with the pulped head and started to drag it aside. Its cloak bunched up and dragged back behind its head.

"Porthos?" Athos dusted his gloved hands. "What's wrong?"

"That ain't right." Porthos muttered and dropped its ankles. The two gathered on either side of the large man.

"What is it?" Athos repeated. "Use your words, it might help."

"'E's got a Musketeer pauldron!" Porthos exclaimed. "Look!" he knelt at the man's right shoulder and flipped aside the cloak tail to reveal the entirety of the scarred leather shoulder guard.

"It must be one of Cornet's men." Athos noted.

Brows furrowed, Aramis knelt on the other side of the body, taking off his hat. Though nature and the weather had taken its course in decomposing the dead body, he had already marked some suspicious abnormalities upon the body. With a cursory inspection, he noted that the man had no mark of the bite and only a stab wound in the stomach, his shirt bloody and torn through the mud.

"He was not bitten, but stabbed." Aramis declared, gesturing to his torso.

"Someone killed 'im, and then 'e must have turned." Porthos nodded.

"What are the initials?" Athos asked from where he stood at the body's feet.

Porthos leaned over and with gloved fingers, traced the seam of the pauldron until he found the faint, carved initials that every Musketeer guard bore of its wielder. "P.L."

Athos thought for a moment. "It's... Paul Laudin, if I'm correct."

"You shan't be." Aramis said and Athos raised a brow at him. "To name the true man, yes, that is his name. But not _this_ man."

"'Ow can you know?" Porthos asked. "'E 'as the pauldron and the travel cloak. 'Is face his smashed beyond recognition."

"His face has been destroyed, yes." Aramis agreed. "But if _I_ recall correctly—Laudin had short blond hair. This man, whomever he is, had long red hair. I do not believe he is a Musketeer."

"Are you sayin' 'e killed a Musketeer and stole 'is uniform?" Porthos demanded indignantly, jumping to his feet. "What bastards—!"

Aramis stood as well, returning his hat to his head. "He was Cornet's man."

Athos sighed sadly. "I had hoped that the rumours that we have been hearing this last month about a rampaging group of Musketeers was just a tale—but now, perhaps the pieces slowly start to fall into place." He paced away. "Cornet's unit has been missing for little over that time. They must have been ambushed, their uniforms stolen and them impersonated. By why?" he carded his fingers through his brown hair in confusion as he came back to them. "What would be the point?"

"People ain't right nowadays," Porthos muttered. "They were 'ardly right before all this 'appened."

Aramis crossed himself and pressed his rosary to his lips for their slain brothers. Before he came around and stood between Porthos and Athos, a hand grasping a shoulder each in camaraderie.

"It's time we leave." Athos commented after a moment of silence. "Treville should know, after all this time spent in search and wondering." He bent and unbuckled the pauldron from the thief's shoulder.

The others nodded and the three men went to their respective horses and mounted, in advance spurring the beasts into motion down the road and back to Paris again.

* * *

Days passed, d'Artagnan didn't know. He didn't know anything anymore, other than that he was trapped inside Hell. His flesh burned and hurt and throbbed after time and again, he was bitten and cut.

No one was coming for him, no one knew that he even existed but for the people who had taken him. No one cared or would. He was alone in the world with his father dead and buried.

He thought of killing himself. While he was alone, he would find a way to kill himself. Then, when next they came for him, they would find a zombie instead. He would be of no use to them like that, what good was dead-blood? And then this sick game would be over, and he would be in the arms of his father again and the mother that he had never been able to meet.

As if sensing his intentions anyways, they moved him from being chained onto a wall, to chaining and strapping him immobile to a table they had brought in.

But his father's voice forever echoed in his head— _Survive._ He didn't see the point, but he followed his father's last request of him, and he stayed alive.

Even, when the day came, when his gruel wasn't so much as gruel, as it was the diced flesh of a zombie. It started as just lumps in the gruel that he didn't even realize they were forcing him to eat, even after the foul after-taste. But then, one meal would be gruel, and then the next meal was a bowl of the plain dead flesh, undisguised. He didn't understand the point of it. He'd put up the fight of his life. Kicking, screaming, punching, scrambling, grabbing, clawing.

But he was weak, after fighting fever after fever, being bitten over and over again, his bloodletting and taken. And soon, they would have him pinned on his back, forcing his mouth open…

They were turning him into a monster—an animal.

* * *

It was after King Louis ordered the Court of Miracle's razed, and closed the gates of Paris. A curfew was put in place, the patrols of Red Guards stronger than ever, every person living in the city was documented. Food was rationed and guarded. A thorough examination for any bites and weapons was done onto any person who approached the gate and wanted entry to either stay or visit in the city. If infected with a bite, they were killed immediately. If with a grievous wound, they were turned away. And then, only after having papers that stated identity, was admittance—or they were turned away.

Louvre was still a picture perfect place, even after 16 years of the sickness. It's grand and expansive grounds were patrolled daily for any intrusion, whether by the walking dead or people known to scale the wall and attempt shelter on the wooded lands.

The Red Guards tended to patrol the city and guard the city walls and gates. But it was the King's Musketeers who patrolled outside the city. For people, supplies, news. And it was the Musketeers who guarded the King when he decided he wanted to play and go for a hunt.

In the olden days, back when the world was not turned upside-down by sickness, Louis hunted buck and boar. But now, the game was far more fun and far more dangerous—when you hunted the zombies. Queen Anne greatly disapproved, and always tried to dissuade her husband the King, but Louis was King and would have his way. So each year, 'hunting season' would come around and Louis would announce a hunting excursion. Captain Treville, and a full Musketeer escort would always accompany His Majesty, with his hounds. Treville had seen many of his good men lost because of this trip over the years, for the protection of their King from the immense dangers of the walkers.

Treville and an escort of Musketeers were on such duty when the three Inseparables returned to Paris, after showing their papers that showed them a registered citizens in the city and Musketeers to the Red Guards at the gate, and being inspected for bites, they were let in.

They always found it a relief to be back inside the walls of the garrison. It was their home. Aramis and Porthos had been the first to call it that, but it wasn't until they found Athos that it truly became so.

Aramis had become a gypsy for a few years after he left his village and lost family behind. He never stayed in one place longer than he had to.

The entire time, without realizing it, he had been working his way towards Paris. And it was on his way there, that he came across a large hoard of the eaters. And amidst them, was a group of Musketeers and their Captain. Aramis immediately went to assist. It was fate, that afterwards, Treville offered him a spot amongst his men. And Aramis found the path that God had sent him.

It was a week later that he met Porthos, whom he and Treville had encountered on the street, defending a woman and her two children from a group of thugs. Porthos hadn't known the woman, but he couldn't just stand by and let them kill the children and rape the woman, stealing their belongings afterward. And that was how he found his place amongst the Musketeers.

The two men had met Athos almost two-years later, when they were out of the city, on patrol. He'd been drunk off his gourd, Lord knows where he got it. It was the days when people were hoarding and territorial. He was surrounded by a group of five thugs. They must have thought him an easy target: alone, drunk. But he appeared to be far from it. In fact, it wasn't until Aramis and Porthos stepped in, killing two of the remaining five men for which they had originally been seven, and the remaining two fled, did they realize this fact. Athos had turned to face them, in a jostled manoeuvre, his sword cutting a wide ark in front of him. _Wadd'ya want?_ His blue eyes seemed to go cross-eyed as he saw six of them instead of two, and then, as if in a physical comedy, went _fwomp_ backwards, his feet kicked up in the air. Aramis and Porthos shared a look, before they went around the circle of dead thugs and made sure they didn't become deaders, their silent decision made. They would have company back to Paris. They and Treville hadn't look back on the man since.

Just like the rest of the world, he'd lost people he'd loved.

They dismounted and handed the reins over to the garrison stable boy. The garrison was virtually empty. But there numbers weren't as big as they were in the days before the sickness. Captain Treville wanted men of conscious and honour stapled with the name King's Musketeer, and in this day and age, it was hard to find a man with firm moral in a world that sought to be ruled by the fittest, leaving the weak as sacrifices. But today, it was more sparse than usual.

"Serge!" Aramis called a greeting to the hobbling man as he came from the kitchens with a sparse tray that fed three hearty men such as themselves these days.

Serge had a peg leg. About hardly two years into the zombie plague, while people were still trying to understand and the city gates were still free and open, the dead and infected were almost completely unchecked. Serge got bit by a deader and in a desperate attempt to save him life, the Captain ordered the infected limb excess. The Musketeers chopped his leg off and saved his life. It wasn't an uncommon reality these days, if an extremity was bitten and the infection was caught early on, the limb would be cut off in hopes of saving the host. Just as if a wound became gangrene, surgeons would take the limb in hopes of saving the rest of the body from the poisoned blood and flesh.

It was never a pretty scene, and it was almost always never done in the best of circumstance—but if proper care was tended afterwards, the survival rate was higher than letting the bite fester and kill.

"Your return's passed-due, _Monsieur's!_ What kept you late?" Serge had heard their horses, and knew that it had to be one of the detachments finally returning from a long journey outside the city. He set a platter on the table of cold cuts, cheese, and bread. It wasn't as filled as it was back in the days before the plague, but it kept the men fed. Meat was a rare commodities these days. They were warm-blood like men, so the biters went after them as well.

They've had to resort to eating their steeds, dogs, cats and even rats when the times had become really dire one year during the winter, when there was an accident and the city stores had been partially destroyed.

The three men took around the table in the yard with relief. It was a nice reprieve to sit on something unmoving after having your backside being constantly chastised as if by a cross mother while on the road.

"That storm a bit ago attempted to strike fear into the Earth herself!" Aramis answered, tearing off a piece of bread. "The river flooded over our path, and we were forced to wait several days before we were able to cross."

"Twas a bad one!" Serge nodded.

Porthos nodded, his cheeks puffed with the thin cuts of meat from the platter. "Where is every'ne? It's as sparse in 'ere as my purse!"

"Ah. The King wanted to satisfy his blood-lust and went hunting. The Cap'n and most of the remaining regiment went along with him. He should be back by t'morrow."

The three nodded their thanks of the man and he went back to the kitchens and his chores.

"He'll be sour not to have our report immediately," Athos commented, drinking from his cup of wine. "But there's nothing we can do for it but wait on his return."

The other two nodded and the three brothers sat the rest of meal in silence, their thoughts all occupied with the same strain. The scene back on the main road two days ago. The stolen Musketeer uniforms, and the dead men laid waste to, never to be found.

Athos didn't like the uneasy feeling it gave him. One that was separate from Cornet, but for the masquerade behind it. The puppet master.

"S'pose we 'ave the rest of the night off?" Porthos questioned as he drained the rest of his cup, the food on the platter extinct down their gullets, and drew the back of his hand across his lips.

Athos nodded and stood. "Shall we meet at the usual place later?"

The pair nodded and their Lieutenant left through the garrison gate and into the streets, pulling the brim of his hat low, despite the lack sun.

"He seems peaked."

"You know why. We've been gone near two months thereabout, and all th' while _she_ 's been free to do as she 'as pleased without a constricted eye on 'er."

"Ah. The witch who shan't be named." Aramis nodded.

"Oh, I 'ave a bunch o' name for 'er!" Porthos disagreed.

"I bet you do," he smirked. "I could throw in some of my own as well."

"Not as vile an' creative as mine."

Aramis quirked a brow. "Wanna bet?"

The dark-skinned man grinned. "My favourite words!" he rubbed his hands eagerly.

* * *

Porthos and Aramis met Athos at there usual haunt, the one that stayed open, even after curfew. Though Musketeers, the King's men, they needn't worry about trouble from the Red Guards on at least _that_ particular matter. Even after an apocalypse, it was comforting to find that even some things didn't change.

The older man sat at the booth in the darkened corner at the back of the floor. He'd already ordered the wine, and had three mugs set. He had his back to the wall so that he could have a full survey of the room. The candle in the center of the table, flickered warm light across his indifferent expression as the raucous noise of drunken men and pipe smoke filled the room. Porthos and Aramis sat around their friend.

"The best served in Paris!" Porthos said sarcastically as he drank from his full mug.

"Oh, if it were true." Aramis sighed as the weak and stale wine washed across his tongue. It, like all alcohol in the city, was watered down. All but the spirits at the Palace. Louis was the King, and even in a world shot to hell and dying, he deserved to live like a King. The dead rising and taking stake in the world didn't seem to strengthen and rise the King, but just seemed to make him more childish and petulant—handing even more control than before, to the Cardinal and his own agenda.

Athos' eyes trailed to the door, as it opened and permitted a man, draped in a large cloak with his hood up despite being inside. He paused, and surveyed the room, and then paused as he found what he was looking for. He was staring straight at Athos and his two companions.

"Expecting company?" he questioned. The pair verbalized their denials and turned their gazes to the approaching man. The cloaked man finally stopped upon their table. "Can we help you, _Monsieur?"_

"It's Lemay." He hissed quietly and he leaned forward slightly so that the candle light briefly illuminated the inside of his darkened cowl. "I tried to send a message to someone, but Captain Treville has been out hunting with His Majesty, and the three of you have been outside the city." Lemay tried to explain. "I couldn't risk leaving a message—"

"What is it that's so urgent to report, Lemay?" Athos questioned, stopping the barrage of nonsensical explanations. "It must have been urgent for you to find us instead of waiting for a response to your message."

"Take a seat," Aramis instructed. "Or you'll draw unwanted attention."

Lemay nodded and sat down in the empty chair next to Porthos. The hood still pulled up around his head, it completely cast his features in the shadows, but he leaned forward and spoke hushed in the clamour of the busy tavern anyways.

"Has something happened with the Cardinal?" Athos questioned. Though his slumped and aloof posture hadn't changed, he was nonetheless alert.

"As you are aware, Cardinal Richelieu has been on the search for persons who are immune to the risen's bites—"

Porthos snorted. "Just one more delusion that 'Is Eminence fosters."

Lemay shook his head. "But it is true!" the three Musketeers looked at him dubiously. "A young man was brought in—"

"Don't you mean kidnapped?" Porthos inserted.

"By whom?" Athos interceded.

"Milady de Winter was the one that brought him in," Lemay explained and Athos' expression tightened imperceptivity at the mention of his wife's changed name. "There's been a rumour over the last few years from the small community Pinon of a Gascon boy who was bitten and survived and short thereafter, disappeared."

Athos would always think of her as Anne, but it was easier to refer to her as Milady, especially in regards to Queen Anne, who was of the same name. For the longest time, Athos had believed her dead. But she was not the personality with whom he had fallen in love with, and therefore, she was survivable in a world like this one.

After Aramis and Porthos rescued him from his drunken and deadly state those years ago, had sobered him up a bit, breathed some life and will into him from the makings of their own, and brought him back to Paris—it had been seven months before he saw her like a ghost to haunt him. Being the Cardinal's man as she was, as soon as Athos became a Musketeer, she knew he was in Paris—like Richelieu, she made it her business to know the enemy from within.

The target of her revenge had come to her. She had tried, time and again, to kill him, but he was like a cat with a hundred lives. Instead, she'd only made him suffer instead. Not that there had been any relief in thinking her dead in the first place. She and his brother would haunt him forever.

"Disappeared because 'e died." Porthos agreed, drinking.

Aramis cocked his head at his friend as Lemay sighed in frustration and irritation at the big man's constant interruptions and denials of what he had seen with his own eyes.

"Why is it so hard to believe, brother?" Aramis murmured. "If God struck this disease upon us, that he would not also put such blessed people who could survive its rigours?"

"Not this again." Porthos rolled his eyes. "God has nothin' to do with it!"

"Enough." Athos brought the old and circling argument between the two to a halt; if not, they could go on for hours and shortly, it would turn into a shouting match. "Continue," he commanded the royal's physician.

Lemay took a deep breath and nodded. "As I was _saying..._ I have seen the boy survive the bite. It's not unlike when a normal person is bitten. The virus ravages their system and they're taken with a fever as the natural defences in their bodies try to fight off the intrusion (and fail). But instead of dying—he simply does _not_. It does not seem to matter the biter or where. He survives them all, after taking on a fever. It's a remarkable thing to watch. It—That's not the point!" Lemay stopped himself and shook his head. "He _is_ surviving the infectious virus from the bites of the creatures. It is a cruel torture, I do not know how much longer he may last. He is no more older than what my son would have been..." He trailed off for a moment as the old grief took him—It had been shortly after the epidemic of sickness had spread through Paris. His wife had been a woman who fell to sickness easily, her mind weak and easily traumatised. She was not meant for a world where the dead walked the earth. So when she fell pregnant, the slim tether that she had on the world, snapped. She could not handle or bear the thought of bringing a child into this ruined world. She broke into Lemay's medicines and took everything on-hand, poisoning herself. When Lemay returned to their home later that night, it was to find his wife a zombie.

"Torture done by _you_ , you mean." Aramis narrowed his eyes, his fist clenched upon the tabletop.

Lemay briefly closed his eyes. "Yes. It is myself who has done these things to him. The Cardinal has finally found someone who can withstand the bite, and he wants desperately to have that himself. The mean's for discovering such a thing, is not a welcoming sight. I regret what I have done... but it is only because Richelieu holds trust in me that I am in this position. The existence of this special boy would not have otherwise been known. It is no excuse, but that is simply the root of it. It does not matter now, but the issue of the boy."

Aramis did not appear pleased with his words. And he looked between his two silent friends in disbelief that they didn't immediately verbalize the right and obvious thing to do. Whether this boy was _immune_ or not, he was a innocent prisoner being tortured and didn't deserve to be languished as so. "We're going to rescue him, _aren't_ we," he looked to his friend, " _Athos_?"

"We cannot make a move like this against the Cardinal, without Captain Treville's sanction." Athos dictated after a moment more of silence. "We will have to wait for his return from hunting."

"By then it could be too late!" Aramis protested. "This boy is being tortured, Athos. _Tortured._ " He turned a hard and harsh glare onto the doctor, who shrunk back from the thunderous look. "We cannot just leave him there, not when he can be saved!"

"From what Lemay say's of this boy," Porthos said slowly, looking across at Aramis evenly. "Wouldn't it be better if we put 'im out of 'is misery."

"You can't be serious," Aramis shook his head in denial. "This boy is a gift from God and needs to be saved!"

Porthos opened his mouth to cut across at the mention of God again.

"Whether the boy should live or die, is not up to us." Athos inserted between the pair. "It's the Captain's decision."

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _So, there's some more incomprehension for your pleassure, as well as more insight into the state of Paris. \_

 _Anyhow, halfway through this chapter, it suddenly came to me_ — _the entire premise for this story! I know, I've been agonizing since the first chapter of where I actually wanted to take this story and what I was going to do with it. Well, it hit me! Now... all I have to do, is drag in from my head and make it legiable here in the next how many ever chapters that will come after this one. Still not sure how sane I am, but... we'll just have to see! :)_

 _Please review? Thank yooooou!_

 _y_


	4. Chapter 3: (The Rescue)

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and any zombie concerns.**

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):** Human cruelty **,**

 **Note: That for all the awesome reviews everyone! It makes me so happy! :) I hope you all enjoy this next chapter.**

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Life is Death is Dead**  
 _Chapter 3:_ —

As Serge had predicted, Captain Treville and his escort of Musketeers returned to the garrison from Louis' hunting trip the next afternoon; weary and worn from nearly a fortnight of being alert and on sensitive shift. Upon entry of the garrison yard, he dismissed his men to wash, rest, and eat as he laid his eyes upon his three returned Inseparables. He nodded to them and jerked his chin towards his office in silent invitation, even as he walked passed and mounted the steps to the balcony.

The three clambered to their feet and followed their Captain up the stair and into his office upon the second floor of the garrison.

They had lingered in the tavern still, after Lemay parted and headed back to Louvre. Even after Athos' decision to wait upon Treville's return, Aramis persisted on the matter until the older man set him silent with a sharp remark. The marksman had glared at him and Porthos both for a long tense moment, before he pushed from the table and stalked from the tavern, jamming his hat harshly onto his head. Porthos and Athos just shared a look and sighed, before Porthos drained his cup and Aramis' for good measure, and made after the man. Though it bore little result. Aramis had shut himself in his room, alone. Even now, as they had sat at their table in the yard with their breakfast, waiting and hoping for Treville immanent return, there was a underlining tension.

Treville set his bag at the foot of his bed and went to the side table to poor himself a glass of water from the sitting jug as his men filed in and his door was closed upon the four men.

He exhaled as he sat behind his desk, cracked his neck, and sipped his water. "What have you found?" he asked, skipping over the needless preliminaries. "Seeing as Cornet and his men aren't present, I assume it's what we've all suspected."

Athos nodded grimly, even as Aramis stood restlessly behind him. "The trail was cold. The entire time we were out there, we found no trace on their set course. It wasn't until we were headed home three days ago, that we came upon a spent fight on the main road. The attack appeared to have happened during that big storm. One of the bodies had on a pauldron," the Lieutenant stepped forward and placed said article on Treville's desk.

Treville leaned forward and his fingertips briefly brushed across the leather. "Cornet?"

"Paul Laudin," Athos corrected. "But that was not the man wearing the uniform."

Treville looked at him man with furrowed brows for a moment, before realisation dawn. "You think my men were ambushed and killed, and their uniforms taken?" Athos nodded. "But for what reason?"

Athos shook his head this time. "That is something we have yet to figure out."

Treville sighed, and put his glass down. "Cornet was a good man, a great Musketeer. He and his men's loss with felt and mourned." Silence filled the office for a moment of respect, before the Captain's gaze was drawn behind Athos' shoulder and to the fidgety Spaniard; Athos was surprised the young man was still silent this long. "Is there something else?"

Athos shot a look at Aramis. "Lemay. He came to us with urgent message regarding the Cardinal."

Treville straightened at that. "The Cardinal. It's been a while since Lemay has found reason to report—what did he have to say?"

"As we well know, Richelieu has been after some inoculation against the infection of the bite."

"Which is jus' a hoax," Porthos inserted. Aramis glared at the big man.

"Are you saying he's found it?" Treville asked in confusion.

"Milady came into possession—"

"Possession?" Aramis protested in disgust. "She kidnapped a _boy_ , Athos!"

"Boy?" Treville was even more perplexed than before.

Athos sighed and rubbed his beard. "Lemay said that she had been following after a rumour that spread from Pinon a few years ago about a Gascon boy who was bit and survived the fever. She found him a fortnight ago."

"And you believe him?"

"Why would he lie?" was Athos' answer.

"Of course it's true!" Aramis muttered and Athos ignored him.

"He say's he's seen the boy survive the bite himself."

Treville leaned his elbows on the edge of his desk as he processed what he had been told.

"They're _torturing_ him _._ " Aramis spat impatiently. "We have to save this boy, Captain!" Aramis stepped forward, unable to contain himself any longer on the matter. Athos knew the look on the Spaniard's face well; the one that said he would go himself, regardless of Treville's or Athos' orders. "Before it's too late."

"I agree." Treville said eventually. "Lemay gave you details; on where this boy is being held and his condition?"

Athos nodded. Lemay hadn't known when he would have been able to secret away again, and so imparted all that he knew to the Inseparables. The layout of the cells, how many guards were present, directions directly towards the boy's cell. What gap did lay in their knowledge, was the _exact_ condition of the boy. Every time it was brought up, Aramis would grow visibly and verbally disgusted towards the doctor, who would shrink back in shame. All they were sure of, was that his condition was bad-off.

"Alright." The Captain nodded. "The three of you will extract the boy, using stealth tactics. I want no Musketeer-markings on you. The Cardinal must not know we are involved. As soon as you have the boy, your exit needs to be as stealthy as your entry. Richelieu will find out his prize is missing soon enough, but let's delay that as soon as possible—cover your tracks."

"Yes, Captain!" they all agreed.

"But if you should get there and the boy is passed saving—"

"Captain—!" Aramis jolted forward in protest, knowing exactly where that line of thought was heading.

Treville held him fast with an even gaze. "Aramis—you will do your best to save this boy. Immune or not, he should not be left there to be tortured. But if you cannot, then as hard as it may be, do not leave that boy there to suffer any longer. Send him towards peace."

Aramis panted with emotion, but after a moment, he finally nodded. He didn't like it, but he knew it was true. If he was in the same position, he would want someone to take the same mercy upon him. But he would do everything in his power to prevent it from happening.

"Do you know how the Cardinal plans to take on the immunity himself?" Treville questioned.

"Lemay didn't delve too deeply into detail with that." Athos answered. "I don't think he knows himself. Someone surviving the bite is a new concept. He's _experimenting_."

"Torture," Aramis whispered again.

"You're dismissed." He nodded. "When you complete the mission, I want a report."

Athos nodded and the three filed from their Captain's office, and the older man's gaze turned back to the lone pauldron sitting upon his desk.

"Let's make our plan," Athos said and clapped his hand on Aramis' shoulder, giving it a squeeze as they walked down the stair. "We move tonight."

* * *

Lemay had moved d'Artagnan from the table to the hook that afternoon.

The boy's day went like clockwork, not that he knew if it was day or night. It'd been so long since he had seen the sun. He'd long stopped questioning what the sun was. His brain didn't have the energy to think upon complex things, or much of anything at all. Like a cornered animal, all he had to him now was his base instinct and emotion.

His mind and body were constantly fevered, he was absolutely delirious. He hovered on a blurred line, but what lay on either side was something he did not know or realize. The blue eyes haunted him.

He'd been turned into something other than what he had been, and what he had been, he could not remember. An old grief chocked him, but it was fast lasting. An old and festering wound that withered his heart from something pure and passionate to something dark and hated.

His attention and energy were drawn outward as he heard the clip of boats coming down the hall; it was dinner-time. He slumped down on his toes as the gate opened and a single Guard docked the torch in the holder on the sidewall. His vision flared to the sudden introduction of flickering flames from dim darkness.

"Feeding time," he said grimly and approached, a bowl held in one hand. His eyes were blue.

He slipped the gag from between d'Artagnan's cracked lip and let it fall around his taut neck. The Guard grimaced at the foul smell of the boy's breath. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously as d'Artagnan pushed on his toes and back away from the feeder.

"Where do you think you're goin', freak?" the Guard barked and stepped forward, reaching for the boy.

With what strength d'Artagnan could muster, he lifted his head and lifted his feet the minimal amount required. His body did a small swing toward the Guard, and for a brief moment, as they collided, it was almost as if they were in an embrace. Before the Guard could stumble away, d'Artagnan opened his mouth and clamped down with a growl. The Guard howled and dropped the bowl of zombie-bits, it clattered to the floor as d'Artagnan's teeth sunk into the tender flesh of his throat.

Hot blood spurted down d'Artagnan's throat and up his nose, even as he choked, he refused to let go. He was like a starved dog playing tug-o-war with a piece of meat with another beast. He refused to be the loser. He was not hungry, he'd lost his appetite the moment his father died in his arms. Form then on, his only sustenance was to be vengeance, but that was soon lost to him as he woke up in these cells and realized there was no ford of escape for him.

And soon, a distorted voice over-powered that of his father's _Charles, Son_ — _Survive_ and filled him with _Shadow, Monster_ — _Kill._ He had no choice but to obey, and this was the first chance it was afforded to him.

The Guard finally managed to free himself from d'Artagnan's eager and resolved chomp, and he stumbled backwards, his hand clamped to his neck. But it was too late, the flow of life had been torn. Blood spurted from between his fingers as he choked. d'Artagnan spat the hot blood from his mouth and watched unblinking as the Guard dropped to his knees shaking. The man looked back at d'Artagnan like he was a deader, the most evil creature, wide-eyed and trembling.

d'Artagnan stared back with utter dispassion until the man finally collapsed to his side. He gasped and jerked, the blood making a small pool around him to mix with the bits of inert zombie flesh, painting the picture of some witch's brew. And then he went still.

d'Artagnan watched him and watched him, his head hung low. He stared through half-lidded dull brown eyes, through the ragged curtain of his bangs. Blood dripped down his chin. His subconscious mind registered something that his conscious mind did not...

The blue-eyed Guard lay unmoving—the blue-eyed Guard lay dead.

* * *

As First Minister of France and the Cardinal, Richelieu was considered next to the King and the Queen. He had his own estate at Louvre Palace, and free reign to scheme and hatch him malicious, self-serving plans. And it was in this estate, that he had retrofitted the tunnels under the Old Seminary to fit his needs. Like cells. It was here, where d'Artagnan was being held prisoner and being experimented on in the Cardinal's fantasy to find a immunity to the disease.

As soon as night fell, Treville's three best-men, outfitted for stealth, left the garrison and headed for Louvre on foot. It was too conspicuous to ride, even if it would have been faster. As was there job to know, they waited for a hole in the Red Guards' patrol, and climbed the wall. Though this was their entry, it was far from their exit. No, they had something far more simple in plan for that.

As was their preoccupation, they easily made their way to the Old Seminary. They knew the scheduled patrols of the Red Guards and they were easily avoided, slipping from one cast shadow to the next.

It showed just what kind of man the Cardinal was, to do something so heinous in a place taught of God.

A single Red Guard stood sentry at the door that lead to the tunnels beneath the Old Seminary. Athos silently patted Porthos shoulder and with a flashing grin of white teeth in shadowed face, the big man approached the clueless man with a stealth that contradicted his size.

The Guard struggled for barely a minute under Porthos' punishing chokehold, before he passed-out from lack of breath. The big man dragged the unconscious man from immediate sight of the door. While they had no issue in killing Red Guards—and especially these ones—poor soldiers as they were, they had their uses around the city. Treville had said stealthy, and finding a bunch of dead Red Guards in the morning would cause an uproar, while unconscious ones would just be another embarrassment.

Athos retrieved the keys from the body beforehand, and unlocked the door. Immediately inside was a lit torch in a bracket, and stone stairs leading downwards into darkness. After a nod to his companions, he lead the way into its depths.

On hand the place had a eerie quality. It was so quiet and still. Every sound seemed magnified. Adrenaline rushed in their ears like crashing water. Athos quietly recounted the directions that Lemay had given them in the tavern the night before.

He halted suddenly at the disembodied sounds that greeted him, Aramis and Porthos barely stopped from crashing into him, but they were frozen as well. The older man nearly shook it off as they seemed to hold their breaths and silence greeted them, but then the inhuman sound met their ears again.

Athos finally kicked himself into action again, and took next stretch of block to the left as instructed. They stopped as they cam upon the first cell... The torch spat and flared as he held it aloft, and the darkened areas of the cells were lightened to reveal their contents.

Though Lemay had never stated out-right that d'Artagnan wasn't the only person being experimented on, it was an obvious thing to expect. It had been 16-years, had the Cardinal truly learned nothing? But suspecting something was never as depraved as the actual thing. In the world as what it was today, they were still not hard-pressed to find things that greatly affected and appalled them. The real thing had a effect that imagination didn't.

The sight, the smells, the sounds.

There were so many bodies packed into that first cell, that they seemed to overflow onto one another. The stench was nearly unbearable. What there was of breathing, was the ragged of the tortured and dying. There was to zero movement, but collectively, in the flickering light of the torch, their inhales seemed to cohere together and the movement was like a single, mutilated beast. Women, children, men. It was difficult to tell where one body started and the next ended.

The following cell was empty of people, but its walls were lined with chains and shackles, and in the center were two altered tables that were tilted and arrayed with straps and metal cuffs. The tools arrayed on the table at the foot of these, glinted dully and menacingly in the torchlight.

Finally, the came across the last cell in the block. The sight was just as horrific and overwhelming at the first. Except for more movement in this mass than the last. The mournful sounds seemed to notch up at their presence and light outside the cell. They were in too many states to properly recount. It was a sight that would forever be etched into their brains.

A small arm weakly outstretched towards them, and Aramis made a broken sound of his own as he saw that it was the arm of small girl. It dropped back down a second later, blending again into the main mass.

"We have to—" Aramis started, grasping the bars and staring desperately at the mutilated people before him.

"We can't." Athos said. He was as shocked and appalled as the other two, but he made his tone sound harsh for a reason—it was sometimes the only way to get through to the Spaniard when he was like this. It amazed Athos, after all these years, and all the tragedy that the young Spaniard had suffered through, how he was still so compassionate and soft-hearted. If it had been a numbers game, Aramis would have won above them all. He'd lost his entire family, his father, mother, and two older brothers; the countless family he had left behind in Spain; his new wife and unborn child. And all Athos had lost was his younger brother and his liar wife. But where Aramis had God, Athos did not. "The boy is our goal, he is what he came for and he is all we can afford to take."

Aramis breathed heavily for a moment, despite the stench of unwashed bodied and death. Finally, he nodded and forced himself away from the bars and turned down the darkened tunnels, making his feet take him away from the people he couldn't help and to the one that he could. He would save this boy if it killed him. And he would kill any who got in his way.

Athos and Porthos had to rush to catch up.

It was after the next three lengths and turns that they came upon the dead-end cell that they had been seeking. The gate was partially open, Lemay said they didn't even bother to lock the boy's like they had the others.

Aramis pushed the gate the rest of the way open and the three stepped into the lit cell. Athos placed the torch in the second empty bracket. A Guard lay dead on the floor in a puddle of his own blood at the feet of the boy. The boy was shackled to the wall and hanging from a contraption on the ceiling. They all looked at him in horror.

The boy hung limply, unmoving, his head hung and his chin touched his chest. He was stripped of nothing by his braies, which themselves had been cut short to further expose untouched flesh. His body became the canvas for some sick artist. Everywhere the eye turned, it seemed there was a bite there at one point or another. Soiled bandages wrapped some space of his arms, but the rest of him was left exposed. The flickering torchlight cast the deep gouges in his flesh in shadow, tricking the eyes into thinking they were endless pits.

The smell in here, like with the other cells, was malodorous. It smelt of the unwashed, human waste, decay, and hopelessness.

At the sight of him, Porthos was immediately sure it was better to just put the boy down and leave while they were ahead. He wished to unseen what he saw. After that first year in the Court of Miracles, and then watching as it was razed, the man thought he had seen the worst the world had to offer. But he couldn't have been more wrong. This boy, those nameless people in those other cells... this, this was the horror of the world in one place. It festered here. This was the place that needed to be razed to the ground. He would light the place himself.

A voiceless, broken groan emitted from the boy, a crack of breath. It startled the three men from their horror-filled reveries. Porthos immediately drew his _main gauche_ and stepped to the boy.

"What are you doing?" Aramis exclaimed.

Porthos looked over his shoulder at him. "You 'eard the Captain. Look at 'im. It's better to put 'im down." He turned back to the boy and rose the dagger. "An' if I know my deaders, 'e's one of 'em."

"No!" Aramis rushed forward and grabbed the bigger man's arm, halting his killing stroke. "You can't, he's alive!"

"You only 'ave to look at 'im to see that 'e's not." Porthos growled.

Aramis pushed him away and turned to the boy. He reached forward without hesitation and lifted the Gascon's chin gently. His skin was hot with fever. His expression was slack. His skin was lacklustre. His face was relatively untouched; it appeared to be the only place not riddle with bites or cuts. His lips were dried, cracked, and split. Shadows painted his chin. Aramis wanted to cry at the sight of him.

Athos' focus kept being drawn to the dead Guard on the floor. It was obvious that his throat was torn out. He attention was drawn to the pool of blood, and the strange shadows that flickered across it from the torchlight. Brows furrowed, he peered closer and soon distinguished the grey and discoloured lumps, and the upturned bowl—and his stomach turned.

"They've been feeding him dead flesh!" Athos shouted and gagged in horror.

"What?" Aramis looked over at his outburst in distraction. Belatedly, he noticed the gag around the boy's neck.

d'Artagnan showed his first signs of true life then, and he bit the closest thing to him—the Spaniard's wrist. Aramis cried out in shock and pain, and wrenched his arm free from the clamping teeth. He jumped back, holding his wrist. Porthos let out a bellow of rage and dove for the teen. Aramis stared at the teen in wide-eyes shock, and was shocked even further to find his eyes met with half-masted brown irises.

"WAIT!" Aramis' screech barely halted his friend. "Look! Look at his eyes!"

Reluctantly, Porthos peered into brown orbs instead of white, but still they chilled him to the bone. They seemed soulless. He fought the urge to drive the dagger into the boy's skull anyways. He was sure those eyes would haunt him, and he was only able to look away when the boy's head dropped back to his chest in exhaustion.

"Please." Aramis begged. "If we can't save him—he at least doesn't deserve to die in a place like this! Please!" his gaze bore into Athos, because ultimately, it would be his decision.

"He bit you." Athos said plainly.

"So what?" Aramis demanded. "His bite is just a bite. He's alive, look at him."

"Barely," Porthos muttered.

From what he had just seen, from Aramis to the Guard, and the zombie flesh in the pooled blood, Athos didn't think that there was anything left of the boy that he had been before being taken prisoner. He could understand fully now, the disgust that Aramis felt toward Lemay. He agreed with Porthos on the matter, the boy should be put out of his misery. He could also see that if either of them attempted such a thing, _Aramis_ would be the one be the one attacking _them._

"You're right," he said finally. "He doesn't deserve to die in a place like this."

Porthos compressed his lips in silent disapproval. Aramis ignored him as he wrapped a handkerchief around his bloody and burning wrist. He prayed to God that he was right about the bite (there was no telling what the consumption of zombie flesh might do) but either way, he was getting the boy out of this horror house.

"But the gag goes back in." Athos said firmly, and Aramis reluctantly did as he was ordered.

Aramis took off his cloak and wrapped it around the boy's frail and wounded body as Porthos and Athos came around and removed the pole from the chains. He lowered the boy to the ground and held his still form as the other two men picked a shackle-lock each.

"Let's go," Athos said, taking up the torch again. "We've wasted enough time and made enough noise."

Reluctantly, it was Porthos who was made to carry the boy out. He didn't even grunt as he hefted the slight body over his shoulder. He turned his nose at the smell. Naught but a scratchy breath left the lad and Porthos shuddered at the sound. He quickly followed at Athos' heels, and Aramis was all but up his backside in concern for the boy as he hung there limply.

They didn't stop as they passed the other cells, and Aramis spared them but a glance and sent a prayer to God for them; his focus was on the boy now. They could hear the distinct groan and gnashing that the biters made from another block, and they ignored it, even as it gave them the chills. It would always give them the chills.

They climbed the stairs back to the door, and Athos put the torch in its original bracket before he cracked open the door. The coast was still clear and they exited. Athos locked the door back up and tossed the keys to the still unconscious body of the Guard.

Now was there exit plan—they left straight out the front gate.

As Athos made himself aware, each night at a specific shift-change in Guards at the gate, there was a brief window in which the gate was completely unguarded. The Inseparables used this to their advantage. It was a shoddy work and couldn't stand; they really were going to have to address it at a later point in time.

They walked a single block before they were forced to duck into a side alley as a pair of Red Guards on curfew patrol came down the street, conversing loudly. If the pair looked down the alley, all they would have discerned were more unidentified shapes amongst the refuse. But what the Red Guards also didn't know, was that earlier in the evening, Porthos and Aramis had visited this very alley with a handcart in tow, and left empty-handed.

Athos and Aramis cleared away the refuse they had used as camouflage and pulled the cart around. Aramis glared at Porthos as he all-but dumped the boy into the bed. The Spaniard gently arranged the unconscious boy's limbs more comfortably before covering him entirely with the cloak.

Though there was a need to be off the streets as soon as possible, they went at half-pace. Porthos pushed the cart and Aramis was glued alongside it, keeping one-eye turned behind them. Athos trailed ahead to make sure the next street was clear, before he signalled back to them, before moving onto the next.

The rattle of the wheels seemed thunderous in the quiet night as they seemed to hit every rut and bump in the street. Aramis' ears pricked as he heard an undertone in the clatter. He thought it was just nerves, the adrenaline. There was no flickering light through closed shutters of the houses they passed. Athos kept calling the all-clear. His gaze switched back to the covered figure in the cart. The cart jolted as Porthos hit another rut, and he heard the undertone again.

"Wait!" Aramis hissed, "Stop." And Porthos halted instantly, tense.

"What is it?"

Aramis bent over the side of the cart.

"There's no time." Athos muttered sharply in warning, standing ahead of them.

The younger man ignored him, and flipped aside his cloak to reveal the dark head of the boy. There was a moment of stillness, and then he saw the twitch of movement. This time, he was able to hear the soft groan that issued from him in the silence. "He's waking up, we have to hurry!" he urged, covering the boy again.

Urgency replaced their caution. In d'Artagnan's state, it would not be a good thing if he awoke in an open place that he didn't comprehend with three strange men. If he caused a commotion and drew the attention of the residents, the Red Guards would soon be alerted and their plan foiled. The backlash would be harsh.

They passed the garrison. That was not their intended resting place. Treville said that the Musketeers could not have any connection with this, and outwardly they wouldn't. They made for Athos' apartment instead. Athos' apartment was in a part of town where people stuck to themselves and minded their own business. His landlord was a old widow, who left him to himself as long as he paid rent.

If caught, they had agreed to play Musketeers gone rogue if it came to that—but they knew that publicly, the Cardinal couldn't point the stinking finger. No, like all his treachery, it would be played in the shadows, for which there were many.

Porthos took the shifting boy in his arms again, and Athos was first up the stairs, unlocking his apartment door. They abandoned the cart at the building before Athos' apartment. By morning, it would be gone. The big man found it a relief when he finally released the boy onto Athos' bed. The Lieutenant busied himself with lighting the fireplace and the pot of water over it to boil, and the candles, brightening the room and giving it a warmth that the cell had never possessed.

Athos was the only man out of the three of them that had an apartment outside of the garrison. He needed to place to himself, where he wasn't overwhelmed by bodies pushing against him from all side. Where he could brood, and drink, and be at peace in the most thin of senses. His insides were in some form or another in turmoil over his past. It seemed to have integrated into his skin.

Porthos and Aramis were different. Porthos grew up in the push of bodies. He found being alone disquiet. Aramis lived his childhood surrounded by his family, but then they seemed to drop away like flies. His years traveling alone, while they afforded him a separation that he needed, it was a silence that he did not _want_. Finding Athos and Porthos, was the treasure that he had sought and craved—and found.

Aramis instantly dropped to the restless boy's side and he drew the cloak from his face.

"Your wound first." Athos broke over the rasp of the boy's breathing.

"It's fine." Aramis instantly responded.

"Aramis." His voice was hard and clipped.

"His wounds can't wait, mine can." Porthos grasped and pulled the younger man roughly to his feet. "What—?" The taller man spun him and pushed him into the chair at the small table.

"It's you we care 'bout." Porthos took Aramis' wrist and removed the handkerchief. Aramis hissed and jerked his arm away.

Athos popped the cork from a near empty bottle of watered-down brandy. "The sooner you let us do this, the sooner you can get back to the boy." That stilled the Spaniard right enough. Porthos grabbed his hand again, and the older man splashed some over the gaping wound. Aramis yelped. They wiped the wound down, and then wrapped it with the well-stocked supplies that Aramis had been sure to bring to Athos' apartment beforehand.

d'Artagnan grunted and flailed, flinging Aramis' cloak half-off and startling the three men. Aramis jumped to his feet and instantly went to the boy. He knelt by the bed and touched his forehead and felt the furnace. The boy moaned at his cool touch and his eyes fluttered.

"Cold water, Porthos." Aramis commanded, and Porthos knew to do what he was told when his friend got that look on his face and that tone in his voice.

Porthos turned to Athos' window and retrieved the bucket of water that he knew his friend hung out on the sill at night, and used in the morning for his shock-wave-hang-over cure. He poured some into the basin on the side table. He held the bowl for Aramis as the Spaniard soaked a cloth in the cold water.

Aramis wiped d'Artagnan's face and neck, before he brushed the boy's bangs from his face and placed the cloth on his forehead.

d'Artagnan opened his eyes and they seemed to graze right over Aramis and Porthos. Their faces were just a blur to him. Athos swallowed as a pair of fevered and hollowed eyes paused on him and locked with his own. The blue-eyes of his father's murderer. And suddenly, d'Artagnan's eyes widened and they filled with such rage and grief, the same that Athos saw in himself. Unsuspecting to them all, the boy shoved himself up and launched himself at Athos.

"I'Ki'You!" d'Artagnan bellowed around the soiled gag.

Athos reared back, holding up his arms. d'Artagnan came flying at him like a bat out of hell, his boney knee knocked into Aramis' shoulder, knocking him back into Porthos, who lost his grip on the basin, spilling water on the floor, himself and Aramis.

Athos crashed to the floor, the raving boy in his arms, the back of his head smacking against the wood floor .

Everywhere he grasped, his fingers dug into the weeping torn flesh of the bite wounds, but the boy didn't even flinch. One of his knees dug into his thigh, the other his pelvis. Athos struggled to contain the boy's wrists as he reached for the man's throat, but it was hard to keep a hold on the wrenched and torn flesh, slick from fresh blood.

"Die! Die! Die!" his gaze was blind. Athos stared into the eyes of a wild beast, not a human, a person—a 15-year-old boy.

"Athos!" Aramis and Porthos shouted, scrambling to get the boy off him.

Porthos managed to wrench him off Athos. He continued to struggle, trying to get free and back at Athos. He was howling and yowling. Porthos jerked around, back towards the bed, and all but collapsed onto the boy in order to pin him still. The boy bucked and writhed, and managed to twist around in his grasp. His stench was overwhelming, and the big man fought the gag—he smelt worse than the deaders!

"Aramis!" he bellowed.

Aramis scrambled for his bag, he quickly found a small bottle with clear liquid inside and dumped some on a rag. He rushed over to the bed, and dove into the fray, clamping the cloth over the writhing boy's mouth and nose. d'Artagnan screams were muffled, and quickly, his struggle weakened until finally, after a few jerks, his eyes rolled up into his head and he went completely slack.

They all took a moment to gather themselves after the unexpected episode.

Athos climbed to his feet. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head. It had been such a long time since he'd felt that startled. His heart still felt in his throat. He swallowed as he looked down on the boy and the horrors done onto him.

"It must be your winnin' personality." Porthos tried to joke, but there was no laughter.

"I think it's best if I'm not here the next he wakes," Athos said quietly. "I'll report in to Treville." He turned for the door.

"Athos." Aramis said and the man paused. "Your head?"

"A headache. Nothing I'm not used to." He shut the door behind him, leaving the two men with the unconscious boy.

"I know what you're going to say," Aramis said as he dumped more water from the bucket into the basin. "But I'm not going to let you." He returned to kneel by the bed, soaking a cloth in the water, before wiping the boy's sweaty and dirty face and placing the cloth on his fevered forehead once more.

Porthos continued to say nothing as he stood sentry. He knew Aramis was soft-hearted, but why was he so determined to save this boy? He was better off put down, if the attack on Aramis and now Athos was anything to go by. What had happened in that dungeon had changed him. Even if Aramis could work his magic and heal the boy's body... what of his soul? What of his mind?

* * *

The cool night-air and the stillness of the street seemed to help the ache in his head, and clear his thoughts a bit. His mind stayed on the unexpected attack.

Athos didn't feel as if this was some tortured, fevered reaction that the boy had. No. He'd had nearly no reaction to Porthos and Aramis, but as soon as his eyes landed on Athos, the game had changed. It was like a switch was flipped inside of him. It had been frightening to watch. It was like the boy had looked and _seen_ him. He had wanted _Athos_ dead, but why?

Athos returned to the garrison unmolested, and he climbed the stair to the balcony. He gave a soft knock on the Captain's door, his room which acted as both his office and his quarters. Moments later, Treville answered the door in his shirtsleeves and stockings. He stepped aside and allowed his Lieutenant in.

"It is done." Athos reported simply and Treville nodded.

The older man went to his sideboard and grabbed two glasses and a bottle of half-finished golden brandy. He poured two fingers each and handed his best man a glass. Athos took it gratefully with a nod.

"His condition is poor." Athos took a sip. He gave a quiet exhale; it wasn't the watered-down stuff either. "I'm unsure how long he will survive— _if_ he'll survive."

* * *

[tbc]

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _Well, I just want to wish everyone Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas. I hope to have the next chapter by next Tuesday, fingers crossed._

y


	5. Chapter 4: ('Is is safe')

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and any zombie concerns.**

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):**

 **Note: I've come to realize that when I write "biter(s)" I unintentionally keep writing "bitter(s)". I just wanted to let you all know that I've gone back and corrected this mistake in the other chapters. Sorry if you were thinking of spirits instead LOL. Thanks for all your great reviews! Yay! :)**

 **#2: As promised, this chapter is posted! ... Their first meeting. [fingers crossed].**

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Life is Death is Dead**  
 _Chapter 4:_ —

Aramis was a mother-hen by nature. He'd lost too many people in his life because he was incapable of saving them or caring for them—so he made himself capable. He sought lessons of the sword, he became the best shot the regiment had seen, and he apprenticed in medicine. He didn't turn from a fight, especially if it meant saving someone's life, whether he knew them or not. All life was valued in his eyes. It was the human race that should be worried about being extinct. He couldn't understand why people turned from those who needed their help, who could have survived if they had just had that little bit of assistance.

Those people back in the cells dying. It wrenched Aramis' heart to think that he could have saved them, or at least been there to give them comfort in their last breaths. d'Artagnan was dying to, but the Spaniard was damned if he wasn't going to bring him back to life!

Aramis had several hours to work on the boy unhindered; being forced to drug him after his sudden attack on Athos, coupled with his fever, dehydration, malnourishment, and exhaustion left d'Artagnan dead to the world in all senses but the most important.

Aramis stripped the boy of the last remains of his clothing and he cleaned the boy as he examined the full extent of his injuries from head-to-toe. Seeing him exposed in the complete light was even more sickening shocking than the deep shadows playing across him in the cell.

Some of the bites were unrecognizable; naught but torn and ragged flesh. Others, the bites were so clean, Aramis could see and count clearly each tooth mark. They were weeping and crusted, but the liquid was clear and despite the conditions of the boy, Aramis could be thankful that there seemed to be no infection. The cuts on his arms had been done with purpose. And though it appeared that Lemay wrapped them in bandage at one point, he had stopped when the boy's arms became clustered with bites.

Aramis took a poultice that he kept in his kit, and spread it on the worst of the bites. And especially around his wrists, which were torn and rubbed raw from the harsh metal of his shackles. He hoped it would help ease the pain he knew the boy was feeling.

Aramis covered his shivering, naked form with the blanket for now. And, with Porthos' help, forced the boy to take an emetic. What Lemay had been feeding him was disgusting and depraved and Aramis needed to get it out. So Porthos held the boy's head and Aramis grasped his lower-jaw, pouring in the castor oil and mustard, before making him swallow. Even drugged and unconscious, d'Artagnan fought them. He coughed and choked, and spit the emetic back up. But they got half of it down, in the end. They shifted d'Artagnan on his side, and leaned his head over the side of the bed as they waited for it to kick in.

When it came, it was a purge. Porthos supported the boy's back and shoulders, keeping him steady. Aramis kept the boy's aim true into the chamber pot from under the bed. The smell hit them instantly. It was as if they stuck their faces into the opened torso of a gutted walker. Even with a stomach like iron, Porthos gagged at just the smell of it. When he was finally finished, Aramis rubbed the clear flesh on his back soothingly as the boy was left trembling and shuddering. They laid him back but weren't quite finished with him yet.

He made the boy drink some tea with herbs that he mixed up to help settle his stomach, hydrate him, help with fever, infection and pain. He gave his wounds another once-over and then tucked him and switched the cool cloth out on his forehead.

Aramis had never felt such violence and hatred inside of him before. For the Cardinal, for Lemay, for Milady. For all who had done this to the boy.

Porthos had kept a strict eye on his best friend the hours through the night and into the morning as he treated every single wound on the lad's body tirelessly. He watched as the Spaniard's expression, already dark, went to shades unfathomable as his thoughts turned toward the perpetrator of the scars forever left on the boy.

But it was only as Aramis finally sat back with a long, exhausted sigh, did Porthos step forward and place a firm hand on his friend's shoulder.

"If you think I'm lettin' you out of my sight, you're wrong." His voice rumbled softly.

Aramis continued to stare at d'Artagnan. "I don't know what you're talking about, Porthos."

Porthos sighed. "You do. And I won't let you do anythin' foolish like risk your life in a half-cocked assault on th' Cardinal—"

Aramis pushed the big man's hand from his shoulder and twisted around to face him. "Foolish? Is that what you think?"

"You know what I think."

Aramis stood and faced him fully. "Why do you want him to die so badly? Why!"

Porthos' expression hardened. "I don't want the boy dead. I don' know 'im enough to want 'im dead."

"Then what is it?!" he demanded.

"You! Aramis! You!" Porthos let out a quiet roar of frustration and the side of his fist thumped against the bedpost, making the bed rattle behind the force. d'Artagnan was not disturbed. "I love you, you're my family, my brother—but ever since we heard about the boy, you've not been actin' like yourself!"

"I've finally found God's path, Porthos! This is the road He's sent me on. I've been lost, for so long," he ran shaky fingers through his unruly hair, "But I've come to realize that this was what it was all for... My family, heading off on my own, finding my way to Paris, the Musketeers, _you_ and _Athos_ —it's all been leading to this moment, here, now! I know it, Porthos. My path. Where it's most important, I know it!" he thumped his chest, over his heart.

He shook his head helplessly. "I just want my friend back."

"I've never left." Aramis whispered softly. He gave his friend's arm a reassuring squeeze.

Porthos said nothing as he stared back at him friend who looked at him earnestly, and exhaled through his nose.

He dropped his hand and took a step back. " _I_ won't let you hurt him. I won't let _anyone_ hurt him." Aramis replied. "We need to save this boy, Porthos, because he will save _us_ ," he glanced behind him at the boy, " _all_ of us." He rubbed his bandaged wrist.

* * *

Though the sun was over the horizon, one wouldn't have known it through the grey sky. Athos made his way back to his apartment as the streets grew steadily busier.

He'd stayed several hours with Treville last night, he'd had given the older man a full report of all that they had seen beneath the Old Seminary. The Captain was just as appalled as if he'd been right there beside them, instead of just hearing it second-hand.

He didn't come empty-handed. Carried with him in a covered basket were three bowls of thin stew, and he even managed to score some broth for the boy, though he was unsure whether that was even necessary. But he was sure that if there had been any change, like the boy passing, Aramis and Porthos would have sent him notice.

He wasn't sure that the boy even _wanted_ to live. Athos understood that feeling. For the longest time, he didn't care what happened to himself. Whether he lived or died or turned. After losing Thomas, after being betrayed by Milady, he had no hope or want or cause. He just wanted some kind of oblivion. His heart was crushed. He smothered it with drink, his sword clogged with the blood of the dead and the live. The world wasn't real to him—not until Aramis and Porthos had rescued him, forced him back into life. And one-day, they just didn't have to push him as hard to live any longer—he lingered on his own. They became his blood brothers.

He mounted the stairs to his apartment, and tapped lightly on the door. His pause of caution was due to last nights affair. Moments later, the door cracked open and Porthos peered out at him, his other hand resting on the dagger in his belt. On seeing his friend, he dropped his hand and opened the door wider with a raised brow.

"Is it safe?" Athos murmured.

Porthos glanced briefly behind his shoulder back into the room. "Aramis said that the drugs 'ave worn off by now an' it's just the fever and exhaustion that 'as 'im out. But it should be fine, as long as you don't do whatever it was that you did last time."

"I didn't _do_ anything last time." He muttered, but he was cautious when Porthos stepped aside and allowed him entry.

"Hey." Aramis called softly in greeting of the man. He gave the lad one last look before he stood from the chair at the bedside and approached the pair at the table. "I hope you don't mind, but I borrowed one of your nightshirts." He nodded back at the boy.

Athos shook his head, glancing at the boy before he turned back and put the basket on the table.

"What'cha got in there?" Porthos wondered, circling in like a vulture, scenting the wares. "It smells like my stomach not growlin' anymore."

"And you'd be right." He set out the three stews and Porthos sat at the end of the small table, instantly digging in. "I also managed to get some soup for the boy if—"

"That's great, Athos!" Aramis said happily, taking the bowl. "This is just what he needs." It was cold now, of course, but he quickly put the bowl in the holder over the fire to reheat the food. This was something that d'Artagnan greatly needed to keep his strength up— _real_ food.

"He's _improving_?" Athos asked incredulously. "Last I saw, he seemed on death's door."

"I was surprised, too." Porthos said, huddling over his bowl almost as if one of them were going to snatch it away suddenly.

"I said you were wrong about him," Aramis said quietly as he leaned on the mantle with his forearm, his back to them. "He's strong."

"Or it's your magic touch in effect." Athos said.

When the broth started to steam, Aramis retrieved it from the holder. He'd eat once d'Artagnan had. Though he wanted to let the boy rest, he needed food to gain his strength. "Porthos," he said, approaching the bed.

Porthos groaned and quickly ate the last few bites of his stew before he pushed from the table and approached the bed. Athos watched them work like a team that had done this particular manoeuvre more than once. Aramis blew on the soup like a parent. d'Artagnan fought them, still fevered, he roused half-way, but was in no form coherent. Aramis settled the boy back down before he returned to the table with Porthos and Athos, taking the bedside chair with him.

"What did Treville say?" Porthos question quietly as Aramis started to slowly eat his stew.

"What _could_ he say?" Athos sighed. "He's allowed leave for Aramis to care for the boy, you too, Porthos. But after I shared with him what happened last night, he agreed that I wasn't a permanent fixture here and has given me light duty and the freedom to filter between that and here. If we all just suddenly disappear, if could look suspicious." The others nodded.

"And what-of after he's healed?" Aramis asked, pushing his empty bowl away from him. He rubbed his injured wrist absently.

"We can't know until that actually happens." Athos' eyes followed his movement. A kid or not; injured or not, he was dangerous. "I think we should bind him—"

"We are _not_ binding him!" Aramis snapped, his brown eyes flaring. "You saw what happened—"

"Exactly!" Porthos agreed. "'Ow do you think e's goin' to react if 'e wakes up 'ere in this strange place and strangers? If I was in 'is situation, you'd better watch out."

"This is wrong!" he said, shaking his head. "Have you seen the damage that those shackles have caused? Where do you intend on binding him and not cause him further injury? Athos," he grasped the man's upper arm to stop him. "You know this is wrong. He wakes up, clear-headed, and the first thing he finds is he's bound—the _damage_ it could cause... it will be harmful, not just physically. He won't trust us, and we _need_ him to trust us."

"What 'bout us trustin' 'im?" Porthos returned, becoming the devil's advocate easily where the boy was concerned.

* * *

"What do you mean, he's gone?!" the Cardinal screamed and hurled the empty goblet from his desk across his vast office. Milady's only indication of surprise was the blink as it flew across passed her. Richelieu was usually a very controlled man. But it was the incompetence of people like this, that pushed him towards his snapping point. "How did this happen?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Stealthily." She answered evenly, giving no indication at the flutter of fear she felt in regards to him when he was in a mood like this one. She made no move and kept still as he stalked slowly towards her. "They knocked out the Guard that was posted at the door to the tunnels and just walked in. They knew what they were doing and exactly where they were going. What they were after."

He finally reached her. "An inside man, are you suggesting?" She nodded. "My Red Guards are disappointingly or not, too dumb or smart to cross me..." An angry light suddenly came on behind his pale eyes. "Are you suggesting Lemay?"

"It's the obvious place to start, at least." The corner of her red lips twitched upward. "He _is_ just stupid-hearted enough to try."

"I want him _found_ ," he spun curtly on his heel, his robes flaring away from him. "And I want him questioned. Do you understand? That boy is the key to this all, it's just a matter of time."

"Yes, Your Eminence." She smiled.

That morning, she'd gone done into the Old Seminary. She was board and she had wanted to see that if after Richelieu found his inoculation to the sickness, if there would be anything salvageable left of the boy. If he was still useful, she would have hated for him to go to waste. She had a husband to kill, after all. It was a pity that her plan for revenge against Athos hadn't panned-out. All the work and effort to kill those Musketeers and have Gaudet and his men pose as her lovely husband and his men felt like an entire waste. d'Artagnan had a fire in his belly that was just hard-pressed to find these days. The only one who could match such a thing with his cold fury, was Athos.

But upon her arrival, the gate to his cell was partially opened, a burnt-out torch in the holder, a dead guard on the ground and d'Artagnan vanished.

It had not been a good morning after all—and she was the one that had to tell Richelieu. He didn't take bad news well. Being the messenger of bad news was a very dangerous and precarious job—but the man had taken it better than she expected, though she left quick enough. It was best not to linger.

* * *

Athos made the allowance of only binding the boy when he stirred into wakefulness as he continued to heal over the next several days. Aramis refused to leave his side. He felt guilt and ashamed to admit that he didn't quite trust Porthos alone with the Gascon. It wasn't that he thought that Porthos would out-rightly kill the boy, but he wouldn't hesitate if something like what happened with the episode with Athos were to happen again. Aramis couldn't allow such a thing.

His wounds were healing nicely and cleanly, Aramis was still amazed that none caught an infection, but he was grateful. Whatever it was that made d'Artagnan special, it helped him stave off not just the infection of the zombie's bite, but the general infection that could occur with a bite wound in general.

When d'Artagnan fever finally broke, it was just Aramis in the apartment with him. Porthos had developed cabin fever and his grumblings and pacing to the window and back again were gaining on the Spaniard's last nerve and he growled for the bigger man to take a walk, get a drink, anything as long as he got out of his hair. Porthos seemed relieved enough to go, but he paused briefly in the door and asked if Aramis would be alright.

Aramis had assured him and waved him away, giving him a small, fond smile that seemed to have been absent from his lips as of late. It felt odd to be in the room alone, he thought it was the first time since all this began. But, he amended, he wasn't alone with d'Artagnan there. He sat on the open windowsill himself, feeling the warm air brush against his face. He glanced down to watch Porthos disappear down the street.

Aramis pushed up his shirtsleeve and unravelled the bandage. He inspected the bite in the late noon sunlight that filtered in, his thumb gently grazing the edges of the wound. d'Artagnan had not gone easy when he had bitten, but Aramis realized how lucky he was that he hadn't ended up like that Red Guard. It was clean and clear of any infection. Any worry that he might of had on the subject of him turning, had disappeared long ago when, after several hours of being bitten by the boy had not gaining any noticed fever or sickness.

He left the bandage off, allowing the wound some air. Gazing out into the street below him.

Aramis had often wondered about the bites that covered d'Artagnan's skin. He thought it obvious how dangerous it was to bring in a live walker into the cell where d'Artagnan had been held. But one thing that he had noticed about them, that though they appeared random, their positioning was quite uniform he's notice after long looking at them. They were placed, _carefully_ , methodically. He shivered at the implications. To do such a thing... he didn't want to think about it, but it was hard not to, especially after seeing the evidence forever marked into d'Artagnan's skin.

d'Artagnan sighed and shifted, the bed creaking lightly at the movement. Aramis turned to him, instantly alert. As soon as Porthos had left, he's removed the bindings from the boy. They were made up of thick strips of material, tied to the head bedpost, and bound at nearly the boy's elbows, in a space that was clear of bites but was on the edge of most of the cuts on his arms. He knew that Athos and Porthos had a point, about how d'Artagnan might react when his fever broke, but he knew how he would feel in a similar situation, and wouldn't want to wake up like that, not if he was rescued and freed.

Aramis bent and felt the boy's forehead, brushing the uneven bangs from his forehead. And felt cool warmth instead of raging fever. He let out a happy chuckle. The fever had broken, d'Artagnan was finally out of the woods at risk of death. But he didn't wake. His body was finally now able to properly rest and heal without the raging fever tearing and weakening his body.

When Porthos returned, it was with Athos and food in company. He'd rewrapped his wrist.

"His fever broke!" Aramis told the pair with a grin.

"So, your touch really is magic." Athos commented from his chair and the younger man laughed.

"I can't claim all the credit," he said fondly.

Porthos looked at the sleeping boy, and then narrowed his eyes. "You took off the restraints, Aramis." He snapped. He bent over the boy and bound him again.

Athos sighed tiredly as Aramis glared at the bigger man. "He's _sleeping_ , Porthos. He doesn't need to be bound."

"That was the agreement." Porthos growled, turning to the other man in frustration. "The last time you weren't careful, 'e bit you!"

d'Artagnan furrowed his brows at the raised voices. He had been in a deep sleep of oblivion and peace. He was with his father again, back when he was younger and they were in Pinon. But the raised voices and sharp tones were punching holes in that world, peeling away the unwilling layers.

"Keep your voice down." Aramis hissed quietly, conscious of d'Artagnan, even if Porthos didn't care. "We've already discussed this. This bite, was no more than just a bite. I haven't been turned and I'm not going to be turned."

"Enough." Athos' single tone was enough to stop their argument from flaring. "What is wrong with the two of you? You've been at each other like this for a week now."

 _Why is Pa arguing_? d'Artagnan wondered tiredly. He sighed and tried to drag himself from sleep. But it was like slugging through the thick mud of a bog in April. His body hurt, he didn't understand. Something wasn't right. _Pa?_

"Talk to him, Athos." Aramis gestured sharply at the big man. "He's the one that's been a complete ass since this started."

Adrenaline rushed through d'Artagnan sluggish blood, sending it crashing into his brain and heart. He knew that name. Athos. Athos killed his father—because Alexandre was dead.

"An ass?!" Porthos repeated indignantly. "You're the one that's been possessed since ' _e_ came."

"Don't blame him for your own problems!"

" _My_ problems?"

They weren't in Pinon, they were... they were... d'Artagnan's eyes snapped open and he lurched upright. They were forever separated.

The three men nearly jumped from their skin at the sudden and unexpected involvement from the boy, and they stared, their tongues frozen and argument forgotten.

d'Artagnan breathed heavily, looking around in confusion, but not seeing properly. His mind moving severely fast and super slow at the same time. He turned his head and took them in, lurching back against the wall. His blurry gaze flitted over each of them, and then zoned in of the black leather pauldron on the seated man's shoulder.

His eyes widened and anger reared inside of him. He knew that leather guard. How could he forget? A Musketeer murdered his father right before him!

"Musketeers!" d'Artagnan spat the word with contempt, his voice scratchy from disuse. "Pa said you were honourable men, that Captain Treville would help us. But you killed him, took him from me! I'm going to find him. I'm going to kill him. _Athos_! He took everything from me! I'm going to make him suffer as I have suffered!" he roared, and lurched forward, only to be halted by the restraints that he hadn't quite registered before. "I will have his head!" he chocked.

Athos was startled to hear his own name and as surprised as his brothers and the three Inseparables shared a fast look.

"You know Captain Treville?" Aramis questioned, finding his voice. As shocked as he was, he was smart enough that it wouldn't be the best time to mention that Athos was seated right there.

d'Artagnan instantly went tight-lipped at the question. He tugged on the restraints in confusion and grief, his pain dulled by whatever they had given him. "Let me go! I'm no use to you. Why can't you just let me be?" he hated at the tears that overwhelmed his gaze.

"We're not here to hurt you." Aramis promised him quietly.

He was weak and vulnerable. His fever was finally broken after two-weeks in a haze of rage, confusion, and a nightmare. But even now, he was still trapped in such a world. Injured, bound, held captive. A never-changing pivotal-point was Alexandre's death at the Musketeer Athos' hands. "Hurt?" he scoffed. They only pain he knew now was the loss of his father. What had been done to him, what they would do to him, were _nothing_ on the spectrum. "I don't think it'll hurt much after I kill him, and then kill him again after he turns—do you?"

Aramis shook his head sadly. "It will if he's an innocent man."

"Inn... innocent man?" d'Artagnan sputtered. "Innocent men don't murder." His eyes narrowed eyes suddenly. "Do you know him? Do you know _Athos_? You're pleading his innocence, aren't you? You must know him."

Aramis shot a glance over at Athos, unsure of what exactly to say. Athos sighed and stood, stepping next to his friend.

"How exactly did you meet... Athos?" his gaze flickered.

d'Artagnan gritted his teeth. "You're Musketeers, you know what he did. You work for that bastard, you did this to me!" the restraints taunted as he gestured to himself, a little surprised when he looked down and noticed that he was covered in a nightshirt, his legs tangled in a blanket. He was on a bed, he noted. An apartment, not a cell. But he let the confusion be shoved aside by his anger.

"Answer th' question." Porthos snapped, speaking for the first time.

"Come a little closer and say that!" d'Artagnan growled. Porthos inhaled sharply and said nothing.

Athos and Aramis looked at the big man in a flash of surprise at his lack of resistance. Aramis held his hand up to the boy.

"We do not work for the Cardinal—the man is evil. We're trying to stop him." Aramis explained. "We got you out of that cell. We want to help..."

d'Artagnan looked at the Spaniard, who looked back with open and pleading brown eyes.

 _\- The hands that touched his face were gentle_ — _The brown eyes filled with sorrow and care. -_

He shook his head and blinked in uncertainty.

"Please... tell us what happened."

d'Artagnan continued to stare at him, Aramis stared evenly back. Porthos found it unnerving. He found the boy unnerving. He couldn't get the sight of his biting Aramis out of his head. He's killed that Guard with his _teeth_. He shivered silently at the boy's dead stare. Right now, in was filled with a passion that had been completely absent before.

 _\- soft words murmured through fevered haze_ — _Tenderness and promise carried in each unheard word. -_

"Rain." d'Artagnan croaked. He didn't look away from Aramis, he couldn't. If he did, he'd... he'd…"T-there was a storm. We were attacked by zombies. Musketeers c-came... _Athos_... they... they killed... Pa!" his voice broke and crumbled.

Aramis had to fight not to rush over to him, to try and comfort him in his grief. And all their eyes widened in realization that seemed to dawn in the same instance. The bodies they had come across on the main road on their return for their search of Gaudet and his missing men. The biters, and the thief dressed as Musketeer. The grave dug at the side of the road.

"Musketeers didn't do that." Athos denied. "Those men were _not_ Musketeers."

d'Artagnan inhaled sharply in response, pulling against the restraints as his anger flared again.

"Athos did not kill your father." Aramis swore, taking a step forward and regaining the boy's attention. "Milady set up your capture." The teen tensed at the woman's name. Aramis thought, _good, he's paying attention. He's listening._ "It was _her_ men who killed your father. They ambushed a group of patrolling Musketeers outside the city and claimed their identities. _They_ did this—the Cardinal, his Red Guards, Milady."

"Who is _Athos_?" d'Artagnan gritted through his teeth, his eyes bright.

There was a beat of silence.

"I am." The man with the pauldron said.

His eyes widened, his rage temporarily overridden by his shock at the confession of the man before him. "You killed Pa." He accused.

"I did not." Athos denied. "I am sorry for your father, but it was not I who killed him."

He shook his head. "You're a liar!"

"What reason would I have to deny such a thing?" Athos asked instead. "You are at our mercy. You have nothing over us."

d'Artagnan suddenly stopped straining against the restraints, too preoccupied to realize that if he really thought on it, the bindings weren't all the difficult to get out off. He slumped back, exhausted. These men were Musketeers. Alexandre said that the Musketeers would help them, keep them safe. It was Musketeers who killed his father and tore his world apart.

Aramis slowly approached him, his hands held up, open-palmed in placation. "I'm going to take off the restraints, alright?"

"All right..." he repeated like a puppet.

"We won't hurt you," he promised, "But you can't try anything either."

d'Artagnan watched him warily, tense. But Aramis undid them without a problem and stepped back again. The silence in the room was roaring.

They all waited with bated breath for the boy's definite response.

 _This man was Athos._

d'Artagnan suddenly raised his head. His eyes briefly flickered up Athos' body, but they settled on his blue eyes. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, wavering, never taking his eyes off the older man who stood stock-still. Porthos shifted on his feet and Aramis put a hand on his chest to stop his interference.

Flashes stilted thought d'Artagnan's mind as he stopped in front of the Musketeer.

 _\- Black night_ — _Pouring rain_ — _Horsemen silhouetted in the night lit by lightening. -_

"Athos."

 _\- The gunshot_ — _Pa in his arms. -_

Grief swelled in d'Artagnan's throat and he grasped Athos' doublet. "Athos." He croaked and swallowed.

 _\- Blue eyes floated bodiless_ — _haunting. -_

His grip tightened and the leather creaked.

 _\- Athos surrounded by d'Artagnan's red fevered-rage, hitting the floor. -_

 _\- Gaudet at the at the city gate—'Athos'—strands of greasy hair—blue eyes—a malicious grin. -_

d'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut, trembling as the memories swamped, swam, twisted and morphed in his head.

"Athos—"

 _\- Scarred leather pauldron gleaming wetly in the rain, darkened by blood. -_

"—killed Pa. He—"

 _\- The flare of gunpowder. -_

d'Artagnan flinched. "He—"

 _\- Blue eyes grinning at him. -_

Tears trembled on the boy's eyelashes and crawled down his gaunt cheeks. Athos could feel his own emotion swell and roll as he watched the expressions on the boy. Could feel his emotions through his grip. Athos lifted his hand and in a attempt to reach out, to comfort, at something, laid each on a smooth-fleshed patches left unbitten on d'Artagnan's arms.

d'Artagnan gasped at the contact. Athos' hands were rough and gentle and firm— _familiar_ like Alexandre's:

 _("Your hands," d'Artagnan grasped his father's larger hands in his. "Why can't I have hands like yours?" his thumbs brushed over the calloused pads on the old Gascon's palm._

 _Alexandre smiled and reversed the hold, cupping his son's hands. "You've your mother's hands."_

 _"I do?" the nine-year-old's eyes widened._

 _"Yes." He nodded. "These are the strongest hands there are. They carry such love and fierceness in them, Charles. They're the hands of a warrior_ and _a nurturer. These hands will save many lives." Now, he twined their fingers, pressing their palms together. "And_ these _hands," he said, nodding to his own, "Will guide you until you're ready."_

 _"Promise?"_

 _"I promise, son. I will not leave you until you're ready.")_

His eyes flew open.

 _\- The gunpowder flared as it ignited—blue eyes in blackness suddenly set into a face—Gaudet's face—'Athos' from the city gate—not Athos now—not Musketeer—Red Guard—Milady—His Eminence— ... Lemay! -_

d'Artagnan look electrified and he released Athos suddenly, stumbling back. Athos reached for him, but he stopped suddenly when he realized that _he_ was the cause. Aramis quickly stepped in. d'Artagnan flinched lightly at his sudden touch, but let himself be guided to the edge of the bed.

"I am Aramis." Aramis murmured. "That is Porthos. And…"

"Ch—d'Artagnan." He whispered. He wanted to be remembered for his Pa.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis said softly, perching on the edge beside him. It was the first time that the Gascon had heard his family name from gentle lips in such a long time. His fingers brushed against the sweaty forehead. "You're not well yet, you should rest."

"Athos," d'Artagnan said and grasped Aramis' wrist, "Didn't kill my father—a man—R-Red Guard—" he shook his head, so overwhelmed that he didn't notice the marksman flinch when he grabbed his wrist. "Milady"—this time Athos flinched—"His Eminence... L"—d'Artagnan suddenly paled further if that were possible, and green. Aramis' eyes suddenly widened in realization and with his free hand, scrambled beneath the bed for the chamber pot. "Lemay!" d'Artagnan heaved and was sick.

The smell immediately permeated the room and the Inseparables' expression twisted with distaste. d'Artagnan finally finished, breath ragged, covered in another layer of sweat, and utterly exhausted. Aramis took the pot away, shooing it away on the floor with his foot. Without having to be asked, Athos handed him a cup of water. The Spaniard helped the boy drink, the Gascon still gripping his injured wrist.

"Come now," he murmured softly. "It's rest you need." And he shifted and lowered the boy back onto the bed with no resistance.

d'Artagnan shifted his grip from Aramis' wrist to his hand and squeezed. He could trust Aramis, he knew that he could. Alexandre promised. "My Pa—" His voice broke as his grief fought with his exhaustion.

"I know." Aramis hushed him and tucked him all in. Athos and Porthos watched the exchange silently. "Your father was right—we will protect you, d'Artagnan. _No one_ will lay a hand on you again." He promised.

Porthos hardly restrained himself from protesting upon such a huge and impossible promise.

d'Artagnan wept, but exhausted, he let Aramis' words take a hold on his heart. The man's voice, his warmth. Feeling warm, comfortable, and _safe_ since he couldn't last remember—he slept, actually slept.

Aramis sat there for a long while, just staring at the boy, making sure he was actually asleep. The grasp on his hand lightened, but did not relent. His hope had soared with the knowledge that they had gotten through to the drained teen.

"Well..." Porthos said into the surrounding silence. He sat down, suddenly feeling exhausted. Though he hadn't done anything physical, it had been an emotional drain—on them all.

"I was not expecting that," Athos admitted, brushing his fingers through his hair, his fingers brushing the still lightly tender flesh at the back of his skull from the incident days earlier. "After all he's been through..."

"That there wouldn't' be anything left?" Aramis whispered. "Not a boy in there who'd lost his father? Because that's what he is, Athos. Just a boy." He shook his head. "He must have been bitten when it all happened. That storm, that fever, burying his father... he must've been taken shortly after."

Porthos scoffed and shook his head. "This entire thing is ridiculous!"

Aramis turned to him with narrowed eyes. "You still don't believe, do you?" he asked, incredulous. "Even with the state that he's in?"

"No." Porthos agreed. "And I won't 'til I see 'im survive the fever myself."

"Well, I hope that day never comes." He said promptly. And turned matters to other things, "From what [ _Lemay]"_ —Aramis mouthed the name from the boy's hearing and his lips felt soiled afterward—"intimated, he was getting nowhere with this cure. Maybe... you have to be born with it—it can't be transferred." The Spaniard had a lot of time to contemplate this.

"Are you sayin' the boy 'as outlived 'is usefulness?" Porthos asked bluntly. "So they'll just let 'im be?" He snorted, "Even if that usefulness part is true, the Cardinal will come after us for 'principle' alone."

"Porthos is right." Athos agreed, sitting in the chair at the small table by the fire heavily. "Whether the b—whether d'Artagnan"—he remembered the teen's name for his report to Treville—"is the 'cure' or not, we've slighted Richelieu. He'll be pissed that something of his was stolen from him."

"d'Artagnan is not some _thing!"_ Aramis hissed vehemently.

Athos held up his hand placating. " _I_ know that. But that's how Richelieu sees him, Aramis. You know that. He'd doesn't care."

"Well, I care." Aramis retorted. "He's not going to get his hand's on d'Artagnan again."

"You're right. He's not."

Porthos sighed quietly at the pair of them. Whether he truly believed in the cause, in what they were doing—didn't matter. He was always going to be at his brother's sides, he's always have their backs. Maybe eventually he would see, he would believe. But believing in his brothers was enough.

"So, what's the plan?" the big man wondered.

"We take down the Cardinal," Aramis said simply and Athos nodded his affirmative.

"Oh, is that all then?" Porthos reply was deeply sarcastic. "Nothin' too complicated then."

"When is anything easy, worthwhile?" Athos raised a lightly amused brow. "Besides, I thought you were stir-crazy being stuck in here."

"Oh, I am, believe me! But you're right, I have been out of it for too long." He cracked his knuckles and neck with a grin, "So why not start with taking out a power evil?"

"So, gentlemen," Athos mused, his fingers tapping the tabletop, "Who's ready to dismantle Richelieu's empire?"

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _Well, this was an exhausting chapter to write. Even now I'm uncertain how well d'Artagnan's meeting with the Inseparables went. Please, tell me your thoughts on this. I know you're probably all wondering what the hell Porthos' problem is… that just mean's I'm doing my job correctly! Everything will be revealed… when I feel like it. (jking). It'll all come out, I promise!_

 _Is this the part where I plea for reviews?_

 _Please sir…_

 _y_


	6. Chapter 5: (The mark of Death)

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general zombie concerns.**

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Life is Death is Dead**  
 _Chapter 5:_ —

Treville walked beside Athos down the streets from the garrison the next afternoon, both dressed in nondescript cloaks with their hoods thrown up. The raised hoods helped avoid being recognized and was easily explained off for the light drizzle that morning. The night before, Athos had returned to the garrison from his apartment as night had fallen completely and once again knocked on his Captain's door to give report.

He told of the boy's recovered fever. At the mention of the name d'Artagnan, Athos watched several things filter through his superior's grizzled eyes. Surprise at the name—recognition. Sadness. Resignation. Treville was distracted throughout the rest of the report, and Athos thought it best not to mention just yet the Inseparables' plan to expose Richelieu.

"What's wrong?" Athos asked as they stopped at the bottom of the stair that lead up to his apartment, to Porthos who was leaning against the outside beam.

"Sir." Porthos nodded quietly to the Captain instead.

"The boy is upstairs?" Treville questioned.

"With Aramis."

Treville nodded and headed up the stairs.

"Porthos?" Athos persisted.

"It's nothin'." Porthos said tensely. "It won't interfere." He promised and Athos had no other choice but to accept this as truth—for the time being. They mounted the stairs after their Captain.

Treville was paused outside the door, his head cocked as he listened to the quiet voices on the other side of the door, his hood lay on his shoulders.

"That sounds so beautiful," d'Artagnan whispered. "And… harsh."

"Because it is, just not in the traditional sense." Aramis agreed.

"Say it again?"

Aramis chuckled and did as requested, repeating the crude-sounding quote, though it didn't sound as such with the soft lilt of the Spanish words, " _Comer, beber y ser feliz para mañana que nos podemos morir."_

"Ah." d'Artagnan grunted softly. "Pa—" his voice hitched briefly. "Pa used to tell me: _Transit umbra, lux permanet."_

"My father said the same thing!" Aramis gasped in amazement. "What an incredible thing."

Treville inhaled, raised his fist—"Aramis, i—" and knocked. The conversation inside halted and Treville opened the apartment door, stepping in with Athos and Porthos. The older man halted at the sight of the boy straddling a chair backwards, bare-chested as Aramis sat on his right, tending his wounds.

Athos' description of the boy's wounds did not prepare even the battle worn man for the sight of the bites that covered the boy's exposed torso, arms and nape, even weeks healed.

"Captain!" Aramis said. He knew the Captain was coming, but he would have appreciated a little warning, especially for d'Artagnan's sake. He shot Porthos a look as if it were the man's fault. d'Artagnan was tense and wary as he looked over his shoulder at the older man.

Treville nodded, but found it hard to break his gaze from the boy's wounds. Aramis quickly handed around a shirt and the Gascon slipped it overhead, standing and breaking the spell. Athos had been able to borrow pair of breaches from the stable boy at the garrison without issue. A pair of old boots and shirtsleeves and jerkin completed the outfit.

There was a heavy silence in the room that started to make even Athos edgy.

"You're Captain Treville?" d'Artagnan spoke, quickly growing uncomfortable under the man's veiled stare.

Treville cleared his throat and nodded. "And you must be boy I've been hearing about."

d'Artagnan gave a tight smile, he gaze flickering over to Athos behind the man's shoulder. This was truly the first day that he had been up on his own, that Aramis had allowed. And he knew this moment here was coming, he just didn't expect it _now_. He'd been clear-headed for the first time in weeks, and every thing felt like it was flying passed him like a galloping horse.

"My Pa..." d'Artagnan started, "My Pa mentioned you on our way to Paris."

"Alexandre," Treville sighed sadly. "I was sorry to hear what happened to him."

d'Artagnan inhaled sharply, he heard the gunshot again. He was startled when Aramis pushed him back into the chair again and when the he looked over at the Spaniard, the man just gave him an encouraging look as he leaned back against the small table.

d'Artagnan looked uncomfortable as he said: "Pa said that you were a good and honourable man, that you would help us—despite you having last met seventeen-years before."

"Our original parting was left on shaky ground," Treville admitted. "But our last meeting rekindled our old friendship."

"Shaky?" d'Artagnan furrowed his brows. He never would have believed that, for the way his father had spoken of the man and his Musketeers.

He glanced at his men and looked awkward and embarrassed. "Alexandre and I met as young men, we became blood brothers, joined up for King and Country. But a rift came between us as we returned to Gascony and met a girl... your mother."

"My mother?" the boy gaped in surprise.

"Ella." He whispered softly, almost as if the name were a secret on his lips. He could see her and him both in the boy. "We both loved her greatly and our friendship was strong. But we couldn't both have her. She married Alexandre and he left soldiering to buy a farm and have a family. But I went in the opposite direction and soldiering became my life.

"We kept in touch with letters for a brief time, but they slowly petered out. We'd both moved on with our lives. Alexandre and Ella with the farm and starting a family, and I becoming a King's Musketeer and moving up the ranks." He paused. "It was good to see him, the year before. Any hard feelings that had been between us, vanished. They were both, truly amazing people... d'Artagnan." He whispered. "The world weeps at there loss, as do I."

"Mm." d'Artagnan nodded in firm agreement and they were quiet for a moment, man and boy remembering. The Inseparables said not a word, because though they shared in this moment, it belonged to the two Gascons.

Aramis knew what it was to love and respect his father, and d'Artagnan thought the world of his. That man had been all that the boy had, and for that old Gascon's sake, the Spaniard vowed to help and be d'Artagnan's friend for as long as he was able. Porthos never knew his father, but that was the way that he loved his mother, for the short time that he was allowed her. Athos' relationship with his own father wasn't boundless with love, nor was it filled with hate. Their grounds had been a middle one. It was the harsh loss of Thomas that grieved him most.

"Athos has been keeping me updated on you." Treville took a seat at the table in the chair facing the teenager. "How is it that you can survive the bite, d'Artagnan?" he questioned and the boy could feel the intensity that filled the room from the others. "Do you know?"

d'Artagnan shrugged helplessly. "I always asked Pa, but he always said that it was a gift from God and not something that we should rightly question." Aramis smiled at that, even as Porthos scoffed. "My mother was heavily pregnant with me when she and Pa were driven from the farm by a group of bandits who they had offered shelter and food to." d'Artagnan looked down at his hands in his lap, fidgeting. "They were attacked by zombies in the night and she was bitten. Pa... cut her arm off, but the fever took her anyways. My last days inside of her, she was ravaged by the fever. She held on for four days." Tears welled and blurred his brown gaze, and he gave a heavy sniff. "I came into this world as she left it." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. It felt like such a long time since he had spoken at any length. "Pa was left with a dead wife and a new born babe... knowing no other course to take, he held me to her breast." He swiped uncomfortably at his uneven bangs. "Make of that what you wish. Whether it actually caused my immunity..." Again, he shrugged helpless.

"And it _is_ a gift." Aramis squeezed his shoulder carefully.

d'Artagnan scoffed at that. "It feels more like a curse! What good had it done me?"

Perhaps shocking or not, it was Athos who answered, "It gave your father fifteen years with his son. That's more than most can claim in a world like today."

"He's right," Aramis whispered. His own child would have been a little younger than d'Artagnan was now.

"You're a very brave lad," Treville said. He reached forward and patted his knee gently. "You've survive through what most grown men would not. Alexandre and Ella would be very proud of you."

d'Artagnan nodded. His father always said that same of his mother. It felt so strange to hear someone other than Alexandre speak of her. It was obvious just by the way Treville spoke her name, that he loved her. He found it both shocking and almost enlightening to discover something unknown of his father. This was a man he had known every single day of his life, had seen, spoken to, touched— _every day_ —until a few weeks ago when the man was suddenly snatched from his life. But meeting with Treville, was like meeting another part of his father.

"Will I be able to stay?" d'Artagnan asked desperately, almost as if the thought had just occurred to him. "Will the Cardinal ever let me alone?" This was where Alexandre had wanted him, and damn if he wasn't going to stay.

Treville sighed heavily, the weight of this responsibility great. He could feel the weight of his men's' eyes on him. Alexandre was leaving the charge of his and Ella's only son in his hands. He only wished that the man could be there to help guide his hand. The answer was an obvious and true one, if complicated. He could not turn Alexandre and Ella d'Artagnan's son away.

* * *

It had almost been a week since d'Artagnan's fever had broken, and Treville couldn't spare his three best Musketeers any longer; he was already severely undermanned compared to the Cardinal's Red Guards, despite each of his own men being worth ten of Richelieu's incompetent soldiers. He'd sent them a days ride away for a check-in on one of the many smallholdings that Paris relied upon for supply.

d'Artagnan leaned against the sill of the open-shuttered window in the gloom of the single-roomed apartment, looking down into the street. They were strangers to him, strangers to each other even as they passed reciprocally, brushing shoulders. They avoided contact, they avoided connection. They were like drones. These people knew nothing of the world, knew nothing of the evil that resided in the city's very core.

For the first time since his rescue, he was alone. It was oppressing. It left him too much time to think and to feel. His entire capture had been mostly in a heated, ragging fever that had consumed him, distorted his thoughts and twisted his grief into something sinister. But now, he had no such things to cloud him and distract him.

Unable to look at the people with their oblivious freedom, d'Artagnan moved from the window and sat at the small table. More chairs adorned the table, but stood empty. He stared at the basket of food. Fruits, vegetables, bread, cheese. The only thing absent was meat—Aramis made sure of it.

Once Aramis had been satisfied that d'Artagnan was truly onto the road of recovery, he allowed the boy something more solid and heavy for his stomach. He brought the boy a stew with thick chunks of tender meat. Just the smell of it had made the boy's mouth water. He leaned over the bowl, and lifted the spoon laden with gravy and beef and chewed it eagerly. But as soon as his teeth sunk into the tender meat, his reaction was violently adverse. Zombie flesh—his frantic mind supplied. The Red Guard's neck. Aramis' wrist (the first time he discovered this, he was aghast). Hot blood gushing into his mouth like hot gravy! He spat the stew out, gagging and shoved the bowl away so violently that it shot off across the other side of the table. Porthos barely avoided jumping out of the way. The dish crashed to the floor, stew splattering over the floorboards. He grabbed the water jug and chugged the contents—rinsing, spitting, trying to get the taste from his tongue. But it did nothing to dissuade the feeling of flesh on his tongue and in-between his teeth. He lurched across the table for a surprised Athos' cup and threw back the contents of his watered brandy. The spirits burned his throat and he'd coughed and choked, making his eyes water. He fell from his chair, retching, chest heaving. Tears burned down his cheeks. Porthos had stood back shocked. While Athos and Aramis went to the shaking boy. It was only after d'Artagnan managed to choke out an explanation, did all three men look sick themselves. Athos made sure he never brought meat to the boy again after that.

d'Artagnan shuddered at the memory. He remembered the rabbit he had caught a week before he and Alexandre had been caught in the storm and the world had been torn asunder. Alexandre had skinned the animal expertly, and d'Artagnan had roasted it over the fire. It had been gamey, but delicious nonetheless. He remembered licking the juices from his fingers hungrily and eagerly. Revulsion played with him, making a good memory with his father into something tainted.

He picked up an apple that was growing soft and tossed it gentle from hand-to-hand, but had no appetite to consume it. Treville had agreed to let him stay, but he was confined to Athos' apartment until he and the Inseparables could ensure that the Cardinal would let him alone.

d'Artagnan had grown up surrounded by Mother Nature. The longest he had stayed in a place was when he was an infant, but he was to young to hold deep impressions of that time. The other was in Pinon for the two-years. But even then, he'd been allowed to roam, though coincidently it had been on one of these incursions that he had first been bitten. The two d'Artagnans had kept to themselves then—but it wasn't until now that he realized what Alexandre had truly foresaw.

He was feeling confined and compressed, but did he truly want to venture out into the crowded streets of this strange city, where in any shadow down any dark alley Milady or her men could be just waiting to grab him at the first opportunity?

A fear he didn't know when his father was alive clenched his heart. He'd never been afraid before, not when he had Alexandre's hand on his shoulder, a constant presence. He had no one left in the world, his only blood was dead forever—at his own hand.

But what of the Musketeers that he had been in the constant company of this last week? They wanted nothing from him, expected nothing of him.

d'Artagnan had quickly grown attached to the spiritual man, with or without intention. He trusted the man explicitly. Aramis seemed to generally care for him, stranger or not. He exuded no ill intent towards him, but instead, a fierce protectiveness that could be overwhelming and heart-warming. He seemed to enjoy his company and d'Artagnan felt the same.

The big man seemed bitter towards him, and he couldn't grasp the reason. He didn't know what he had done to cause such offence. The quiet and sharp animosity between Porthos and Aramis seemed to be fettered with him in the middle.

Athos was a quiet and intense presence. He was a confusing molten of secretiveness, aloofness and roiling emotion tucked beneath a long-fought mask. d'Artagnan always became very conscious in the man's company. It took him time not to physically react when the man's name was mentioned, the man that killed his father but didn't kill his father. It wasn't Athos who had, but it seemed like the man's name would forever be associated with the death of his father. The man who had really done it was still out there.

He sighed despondently. The apple knocked the edge of his finger and tumbled to the floor, rolling across the boards in a awkward trail before halting at the rough brick of the slightly raised recess of the lit fireplace. The chair scraped across the floor as he stood and walked over to the fireplace to retrieve the lost fruit. Its flesh was deeply bruised from the impact and he wondered at the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach and heart.

* * *

The Inseparables were finally on their way back to Paris after the two days it had taken to journey to the smallholding, do a survey and inspection of the property, its security, and the food, before finally returning to the city. They were half a mile from Paris when they came upon a unexpected hoard of zombies. The sun was starting to set, casting the sky with interlacing waves of soft and vibrant colours, the abandoned ruins on the hill looked a black looming shadow.

"This is not good." Aramis commented. He shook his head in frustration and worry. "We should be back in Paris, not on assignment. Lemay's missing—d'Artagnan shouldn't be left alone at a time like this. It's too dangerous."

"I think you should concentrate on where you are right now." Athos said dryly, prying his sword from the skull of a fallen biter with a grunt, his boot on its forehead.

"I can do two things at once, you know." Aramis panted lightly as he swung his sword in a low cut, managing to sever the legs off three zombies to different extents that had been crowding him, effectively giving him the advantage. He promptly thrust the tip of his sword into each of their skulls, killing them even as they clawed at the ground in an attempt to still reach him. He pulled the strings to his shirtsleeves loose, letting the collar fall open to a V down his chest. It was hot work.

"I forgot 'ow fun this could be!" Porthos hooted as he shoved a walker against a tree, and put his dagger through its eye. He yanked it free and it dropped to the ground in a heap. It felt like it had been such a long time since it was just the three of them. It felt just like old-times, if he discounted the fact that Aramis kept bringing up d'Artagnan.

"You need a hobby," Aramis said dryly, "If you call this fun."

"What concerns me," Athos voiced, his sword coming in a downward stroke. It split the biter's skull right down the middle. He yanked it free and put in a reverse stroke at the eater breathing down his neck, scalping it through the brain. "Is how close this horde is to Paris."

Quickly, the three Inseparable's cut down the hoard until only a scattered few remained. Bodies of the walking dead lay in their final resting place at their feet.

Aramis shifted his stance as an eater groaned and snapped its teeth at him from the dim left, and the ground crumbled way underfoot. He was at the edge of the natural trench that ran along the face of the ruins, long dried out, without realizing it as he'd worked his way through the crowd of zombies. He let out a yelp, his upper body thrusted forward, even as he was being dragged down. His sword skewered through the biter's torso, dragging it with the man as he tumbled down into the ditch bed.

"Aramis!" his two brother's cried out in horror as they were just able to see him tumble down backwards. They made quick work of their distractions and rushed after their friend.

Aramis groaned at the weight on top of him, pinning him to the ground. A pain took his chest suddenly and he grunted in pain, but didn't immediately register the cause of it. The groans of the walker sounded pleased at his mashed on his flesh and the realization took him like a fist to the throat. With a scream, he shoved with all his strength, flinging the body from him, his sword still run through its body.

Aramis gasped heavily as he scrambled at his chest, feeling it slick with blood. In the dying light, it looked as if someone had splattered ink across him. The eater clambered back onto his feet, rasping eagerly for another taste of him. Porthos came barrelling into the ditch and flung himself at the creature with a roar of rage. Tumbling to the ground with it, paying no mind to the hilt of Aramis' sword knocking him in the ribs, he grasped either side of its biting head with gloved hands and bashed its head into the ground, even long after its brain was destroyed.

"Aramis." The Spaniard jumped as a hand was laid on his shoulder. "Are you alright?

"I—" He looked at Athos crouching beside his numbly. "I'm bit." He held out his shaking hand, fingertips covered in darkness. "I'm bit."

"You—" Athos grasped his hand and a choked sound built in the back of his throat. "Where?" he demanded harshly, released his hand and started to check the younger man frantically. "If we hurry, we can—"

"Athos. Athos!" The man finally came to a shuddering stop. "It's too late. It's..." with the same bloodied fingers he touched his chest through the open collar of his shirtsleeves.

"Porthos!" Athos shouted desperately. "Aramis—"

Porthos finally came back to himself at the tear in his friend's voice. He pushed from the dead walker and pulled Aramis' sword free and approached the still pair. "What is it?" he demanded, unnerved at the silence.

"I'm sorry, Porthos." Aramis whispered. He looked down at his chest. Porthos followed it and saw the dark, menacing shadow that now resided there. Just like the shadows of d'Artagnan wounds back in the cell with the flickering torch.

"No. No." Porthos shook his head in denial and dropped to his knees in front of his friends. "Jus' a wound from the fall." He grasped his shoulder. "Jus'—Y-you can't, Aramis—"

Aramis' heart pounded heavily in his chest as he gave them a wan smile. "I wasn't expecting this—not for it to happen so soon, at least." His couldn't help the tremor in his voice.

"You're not goin' to die!" Porthos denied him, tears choked his throat and eyes. "You can't."

"Porthos," Aramis hushed him, grasping his friend's hand upon his shoulder. "We always knew we would never live forever, that we would die eventually."

"Not like this." Porthos cried.

The Spaniard gave a hollow chuckle. "You're telling me! Dying in a ditch with the two of you? I always pictured it with a nice port and beautiful woman!"

"It's not funny!" he sobbed.

"This—" Aramis choked on his words and gripped Athos' arm along with Porthos' hand, needing to feel grounded and connected in the dark night around them that made them distanced and disconnected from him. "I know."

Athos wore a cracked mask of control. "Porthos, stay with him. I'll get the horses. We'll shelter in the ruins until morning." He commanded, rising to his feet.

"Spend the night?" Aramis protested, his thoughts instantly turning to d'Artagnan even in his desperate situation. It felt like a undeniable force. "There isn't time! We have to—"

"We have no choice!" Athos snapped. "It's too dark to risk traveling back to the city, half a mile be that as it may!"

Aramis clearly wasn't happy about it, but he didn't have much choice in the matter—even if Athos was right—not with the two of them to contend with. Four days. That was how long d'Artagnan said his mother had lasted, and that was in her weakened state absent her arm and pregnant. He could last. He had to last.

Athos scrambled up the short incline and trudged through what felt like a wide expanse of deaders corpses to the copse of trees where they had tied off their horses for safety. The beasts snorted at his approach and after a cursory check in the dark, thankfully discovered that none were harmed. He took a moment, a brief instant, his arm wrapped around his mount's thick neck as he leaned his forehead against it.

A shuddering breath clamped tight with despair escaped him. Over the years, they had gone through many close calls. Not all necessarily from the biters, but of normal incidents. But they had always escaped with their lives. This time it was different. This was no stab or bullet wound that could be sewn or cauterized. This was no bitten limb that could be cut off like they had done for Serge. Aramis was going to die, it was just a matter of days.

Forcing the tears back behind his eyes, Athos straightened and untethered the horses, leading them back towards his friends. They were reluctant to tread through the dead corpses scattered around, but with some coaxing, he came upon Porthos and Aramis climbing out of the ditch.

Digging in his saddlebag, Athos created a makeshift torch and lit it. They crossed the short footbridge that reached across the ditch and up the small rise to the ruins.

The snicker of the horses alerted them to the walker, even before the circle of light and its groaning. Before Athos and Porthos could make a move towards the kill, Aramis was on the zombie, leaping onto its chest and forcing it to the ground, his _main gauche_ buried into his skull even before they hit the ground. He gave a screaming sob in its face, his chest heaving as he slumped over the body. This was going to be him soon...

It wasn't that he was dying, though he thought that sucked. It was the _timing_ of his death. Just when it was important that he lived—for d'Artagnan's sake.

He stumbled to his feet and wiped a hand across his face before he turned and walked back to the to silent men, putting his blade back into his belt after wiping the it clean.

"I might have a fatal wound, but I'm not dead yet." They both flinched at the context and wording, it was harsh but rightly put. He was the walking dead now, one foot over the line into his death. "Come on," he said. "The faster we find shelter and sleep, the faster the sun will come."

They found a room that had all its walls, it was big enough to house all three of them and their horses for the night. It wasn't clear either. There were the marks of other people having been there; a spent campfire, abandoned blanket... not more than a month beforehand had it been occupied (though they did not know it, by d'Artagnan and Milady).

Porthos helped settle Aramis and Athos worked on building and lighting the fire. In the light of the fire, they were able to better see the bite and its meaning hit them hard for a second time. Seeing it clearly, drove the fact of Aramis' death home even harder than before. The sharpshooter cleaned the wound with wine from Athos' skin, and dabbed at the wound, grimacing. Even after seeing d'Artagnan wounds for so long, he was not used to the sight. Aramis wrapped the wound—out of sight, better out of mind. He lay down on his side, curled under a blanket, a clouded silence settle between them—none knowing what to say now, just the horror of it stretched between them.

A bite was the mark of death. _He_ had the mark of death.

He seemed to have accepted the fact of his death rather fast—definitely faster than his two brothers. He was going to die, there was nothing any of them could do about that. But before he went, he had the desperate need to see d'Artagnan. He had to make sure that the boy was taken care of, he was too important in more ways than the obvious one.

"Athos," Aramis looked at the blue-eyed man firmly. "You have to promise... that after I'm gone," he swallowed, "You'll look after d'Artagnan as if he were me. As if—"

"You're dying!" Porthos shouted. He jumped to his feet, his arms jerking wildly. "One of us is goin' to 'ave to kill you—and all you can think about is _'im?"_

"You'll deny me my dying wish?" Aramis whispered, stilling Porthos' anger instantly.

Everything suddenly seemed to leave the big man, and he slumped back down to the ground. His shook his head helplessly, tears leaking from his eyes as he looked across at his best friend. "No," he whispered, "I won't."

* * *

They woke at first daybreak the next morning, though if either of the Inseparables had slept, it was fitfully done. As they readied their tack for departure, Aramis could already feel the bite's fever growing in his body. He had the sweets, and a weight felt inside his head. He was running out of time and they needed to hurry.

Athos looked around the room, a silent shiver going through him. This room was disquiet and he was glad to finally be leaving it.

They rode back to Paris at a canter, but they did not ride up to the guarded city gates for which they had departed. The Red Guards might be generally incompetent sons-a-bitches, but when it came to the Musketeers, they didn't let up. Aramis' condition was quickly deteriorating and even fools like the Red Guards would be suspicious. They could have easily forced their way inside, but then the alarm would have been sounded and they would have soon been overwhelmed. But they had Porthos on their side, who knew the ins-and-outs of Paris like no other.

He got them inside, horses and all, through the canal, and soon found themselves riding through the streets of Paris to the Musketeer garrison. Aramis blinked and the next thing his dazed mind knew, Porthos was helping him down from his horse in the garrison yard.

Treville came down from his office, alerted to the final arrival of his late Musketeers. He took one look at Aramis and the grim expressions of Porthos and Athos, and knew the cause. The Spaniard had been bitten.

"Take him to his room," he said sombrely. "I'll call for the Father."

"No." Aramis protested as Porthos started to lead him through to the barracks and his room. "Not here." But his bones felt tired and the big man easily steered his coarse. The fever was taking him faster than he had expected.

The stable boy came and collected their horses and Treville gripped Athos' shoulder in silent support. "I'm so sorry, Athos." He whispered.

Athos just nodded through compressed lips before he stepped out from under his Captain's hand and followed after his friends. He came into the Spaniard's room as Porthos was settling the fevered man onto the bed.

"How is he?" Athos murmured as he went to the side table and poured water from the jug there into the basin and soaked a cloth.

"He's burnin' up like a hot fire." Porthos said, stripping the boots from the man, and his weapons belt. "I don't understand why it's takin' 'im so fast!" he tucked the Spaniard snugly under his blanket.

Athos handed him the damp cloth, and Porthos patted his sweaty face before laying the cloth on his forehead. Aramis' eyes flicked open at the cool feeling, and instantly he tried to sit up again.

"d'Artagnan!"

"Aramis, you need to stay in bed!" Porthos didn't need much effort to push the man down again, not that he rose far in the first place. "And think 'bout yourself right now."

Aramis moaned. "Please…"

Athos sighed. "I will go and bring d'Artagnan here. But you must promise to stay in bed and rest, Aramis."

The man nodded. "I will. I will."

"Look after him, Porthos."

"Don't I always?" Porthos whispered as the blue-eyed man turned and left, leaving the pair. He sat on the edge of the bed, and held his fevered friend's hand. "Oh, Aramis."

* * *

Three days passed, and d'Artagnan was sick with anxiety and worry. The Inseparables should have returned the previous day. Their assignment had been a simple one, nothing should have gone wrong, but...

They could have been delayed for a simple unconcerning reason. Or had more pressing concerns than easing his fear. Or something could have gone seriously wrong. If that were the case, would anyone have a care to tell him? The Inseparables, Captain Treville, the Cardinal, Milady, and Lemay were the only ones who knew of his existence, and half on that short list were his enemy.

But they were his _friends_! He was shocked at the unexpected vehemence he felt on the matter. He couldn't just let them alone to whatever fate God thought He had planned for them.

He had promised, sworn to Athos and Aramis before the three had left, that he would not leave Athos' apartment for anything short of a fire. It was simply too dangerous. He was fighting between heeding their request and finding answers. Yes, it was true, Milady's spies could be everywhere. The woman could be around the corner for all he knew—but his need to find the Inseparables over-powered that base fear and danger.

He buckled Aramis' cloak around his shoulders, already he felt safer, it a shield against unwanted eyes. He stopped at the door, his hand on the handle. As soon as he opened it, his promise would be broken. As soon as he did, he knew that he would push forward instead of moving back. Inhaling once, and exhaling the same, he opened the door and walked down the stairs.

He had never been in the streets of Paris before, and he instantly felt overwhelmed. He forced himself into the passing citizens though, heading to the right down the street. His goal was the Musketeer garrison, but for all his determination, he was only now realizing in the push of bodies, that he didn't know where it was.

After the first two turns from Athos' apartment, he was already lost. He couldn't keep on like this. It was killing his nerves. He couldn't find the garrison on his own, he had not other choice but to ask someone for direction and hope the were kind enough to assist him. He soon caught sight of a older man at a vender and approached, the man looked kind and reminded him of his father.

"Excuse me, sir." d'Artagnan touched a man's shoulder. "Can you tell me—"

An instant later, d'Artagnan was surprise to find himself looking up at the furious man from where he lay crumpled on the street, his tailbone aching. "Think ye can steal from me, huh?"

d'Artagnan looked at him with wide eyes, still shocked for the unprovoked attack. "I—"

"You're not gettin' away from me this time, ye hear me?" he reached down and grabbed the boy's sleeve, jerking him up roughly.

There was the tearing of fabric as the man's hold tore his sleeve. The man leapt away from him in horror. "He's bit! He's bit!" he shouted, seeing the sight of d'Artagnan's arm and the bites and cuts that marred the flesh. People drew to the commotion.

d'Artagnan backed away from the man frantically, tripping over his feet in his haste. He was encircled by curious and murmuring people. His head whipped around this way and that, feeling overwhelmed and oppressed. It wasn't until there were shouts for the Red Guards, that his head finally kicked into pace.

d'Artagnan scrambled to his feet and shoved through the crowd, bolting. He didn't know where he was going, not that he knew where he had been in the first place. Shouts followed him, running steps in pursuit, too. But he didn't look back, he focused on what was ahead of him. He dodged passed people and skidded around corners. He kept running, his feet pounding the earth. Long after the chase was lost on him, until his lungs were strangled and he was covered in sweet. His legs were shaking so bad that he could run no more and was forced to stagger into a abandon alley. He slid to the ground, breathing heavily behind a stack of crates. He looked up into the dimming sky with building dread.

This was not good, surely soon word of a boy bitten would spread through the city like wildfire and none too soon reach Milady and her spies. With the intention of reconnecting with the Inseparables, he'd just put a target on his and their backs. This had been such a mistake, and even if he decided to give up his pursuit of finding the garrison, he had no way of finding his way back to Athos' apartment either—and with night upon him, it was a futile venture.

* * *

Athos quickly made his way through the streets from the garrison to his apartment. On his way, little did he realize, or ever would, that he passed the very alley that d'Artagnan had hidden himself away it, overwhelmed with despair at the situation he had gotten himself into and what might be happening to his friends.

The streets were more busy than usual, this close to curfew, but Athos had more pressing business to be concerned about at the moment to wonder at the cause. He went up to the stairs to his apartment and knocked in the tattoo to let d'Artagnan know that it was a friendly. But when the boy didn't come to the door a moment later, and there was no sound of movement within, he started to grow concerned and suspicious. He reached for the door and it opened at his touch, unlocked. He grasped the hilt of his sword and stepped into the dim room, the fireplace burnt out.

"d'Artagnan?" he called, but there was no answer. He quickly lit a candle. The room was empty. The food basket lay virtually untouched, the room lay unmarred by a struggle, his cloak missing. "Where have you gone?" he muttered. He quickly blew out the candle and rushed down the stairs and onto the street, his head swinging this way and that, as if the boy would be confined to that short block.

He exhaled and forced himself into calm. It wouldn't do to be panicked, he reasoned. He started back towards the garrison, his gaze darting keenly to and fro as he tried to think it through, list the reasons. But he became distracted towards the amount of people _and_ Red Guards with torches coming in and out of houses.

"Hey," he grabbed a young man who was rushing passed him. "What's going on?"

"Haven't you heard?" his face was lit up with excitement. "There's a bitten boy loose in the city. We're all searching for him. Gotta find him before he turns!"

Athos let go of him, filling with dread. "Oh, no." He whispered in horror, his mind and heart filled with a blind terror. And there was nothing calm about him any longer as he took off running back towards the garrison. That boy could only been d'Artagnan.

* * *

"Porthos!" Athos hissed quietly and urgently at the man from the shadows of the doorway. He had managed to slip his controlled mask on by the time he arrived at the garrison, though it seemed hard-done.

Porthos jerked his head around and narrowed his eyes. "What're you—"

"Come here!" he interrupted, just as low, jerking his head.

Confused, the big man shot a look at his fitfully slumbering friend before he rose and walked across the room to Athos in the doorway. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"d'Artagnan's gone."

"What? What d'you mean?"

"I don't know," Athos gave a shaky breath. "The door wasn't locked, but it didn't look like there was a struggle."

"'E left willingly?" Porthos' expression scrunched.

"It seems that way. But if he thought to leave, I don't think he would do it so abruptly. No food was taken, either."

"Maybe 'e ain't in 'is right mind—'ow could 'e be after what 'e went through?" The big man shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe us leavin' was just the right trigger or moment for 'im to do what 'e always planned."

But Athos was shaking his head. He didn't think that was the case, at least the latter. No, he didn't believe that d'Artagnan had any intention to leave. He was desperate to stay in Paris despite the danger of the Cardinal and Milady. No, it was something else, he was sure of it. He was simply too attached to Aramis to just leave without a note of explanation or anything else. Porthos didn't seem as concerned, though.

He sighed. "He's pretty set on seein' the lad." Porthos looked back over his shoulder at Aramis. "What are we supposed to say when 'e asks?" he felt a bitter anger towards the boy. "It'll break 'is heart to think 'e just up and left."

Athos was quiet, his brow creased in concern. "Of his own decision or not—something happened and he was discovered bitten. The Red Guards are searching for him now." He carded his fingers through his hair. "It's only a matter of time before he's caught—a stranger to these streets."

"Missing, taken, wanted, of his own will—none of that matters." Porthos said vehemently, shaking his head. "I'm not leavin' Aramis' side."

"I know," the blue-eyed man whispered. "I just pray that no harm comes to him, for his own and Aramis' sake." One thing seemed clear for now though, d'Artagnan still had his freedom to him, otherwise there wouldn't have been such a frantic search.

* * *

d'Artagnan had a fitful sleep that night, plagued by nightmares. Wrapped in Aramis' cloak, the only warmth for him in the cold night. He came awake in the dawn with a cry and flailing. The crates he had been camped beside in the alley crashed down to the ground. He jumped to his feet, frantic and confused for a moment before his situation came back to him.

He frantically looked out into the street with the fear of the big ruckus drawing attention, but it was still too early, and people were still rising from their beds, the streets almost as empty as with curfew.

He looked at him torn sleeve and sighed. There was naught he could do to fix it, and resolved to keep his arm tucked under the cloak. With a deep breath, he took a cautious step from the alley, looked left and then right—and reeled back backwards into the alley at the sight of four Red Guards heading his way down the street. He looked around frantically for a place to hide.

He rushed further down the alley and much to his relief, the lane was not a dead end as he had first feared, but instead was blocked by a wood partition. There were no hand- or footholds and it was simply to high to climb. He quickly checked for a loose board, he nearly collapsed in relief as he found one. And then his heart jumped into his throat as he heard the shouts of the Guards getting closer. He kicked the board free with a few strikes, and squeezed through the small space. In his haste, his torn sleeve caught and he ripped it further, before he haphazardly tried to wedge the board back in place again.

He didn't wait around for the Red Guards to come and notice the inconsistency, so he turned and rushed off. It wasn't until he was breathless and forced to stop, that he realized something was very seriously wrong. The entire time he had been running, block after block, he'd met no resistance, brushed passed no other. There was no noise but his own rapid breathing. There was no din of numerous people going about their business on the streets. He looked around in confusion, and then horror came down upon him.

The buildings and homes were covered in scorch marks, the wood portions of the buildings were burnt down. The wood structures that climbed the walls were collapsed onto themselves. Each home was doorless, shutterless, abandoned.

"Hello?" he called tentatively, unsure why he did. His voice was swallowed and did not crack back to him from the burnt concrete. He felt so alone and deserted, but at the same time, overwhelmed and crowded. This place was desolate, but he felt a shiver go up his spine.

He started to back away, and something cracking underfoot made him jump. He looked beneath his foot, the dirt turned black with thick, old ash. The toe of his boot prodded the thing he had stepped on, kicking it from the ash. He bent and took it in hand, his fingers tracing the odd shape hidden under years of ash.

His breath hitched in his throat and with sickness, he threw the thing from hand. A bone. A human bone. Panic and fear claiming him, he ran. Just like in the streets of Paris and now here, he had no clue where he was heading. All he knew was that he needed to get out, and get away before this place crushed him. If he was reasonable, he knew this place was a part of Paris, but it felt like an entirely different world.

He couldn't see straight, think straight. The walls were closing in on him, the bones of the dead underneath his feet rising again from the ash to claim him. Left, right, straight. It did not matter. There was no order, just blind chaos. He was alone, trapped inside a nightmare.

Then he heard it. The bark of a dog, the clatter of a cart over the uneven road, the cluck of chickens, the shallow voices of _people_. He ran towards it like a lifeline. Because it was.

The stone archways was like an open wound, and on the other side was his salvation. He bowled himself through it and into another street, feeling the oppressing weight lift from his heart and shoulders. He gasped clean air, back to the streets of Paris and from that horrible ghost town. He could see people, real people, going about their business as they should have been. The streets of Paris were alive again.

He turned, and was knocked right to the ground.

"Hey, you alright there?" A man asked him, and before he could fully realize what had happened, he was grabbed and righted back onto his feet.

d'Artagnan blinked at the man in surprise, and then his eyes widened as they landed on the leather pauldron. "Musketeer!" d'Artagnan gasped.

The man nodded. "That's right. You should be more careful, lad. There's a person bitten on the loose, it's not safe to be on your own."

d'Artagnan nodded nervously; _he_ was that bitten person. He made sure the cloak covered his arm. "Um," he gulped. "Could you help me find the garrison? I need to see the Musketeer Aramis."

"You know Aramis?" the Musketeers said in surprise.

"Yes," he nodded rapidly. "He saved my life."

"You're friends with Aramis?"

D'Artagnan nodded eagerly, feeling his luck swell at the man's word. "Yes! I'm his friend. I need to speak with him, it's urgent!"

"I'm sorry, lad." The man shook his head sadly. "You must not have heard… Aramis was bit. He's…"

"No!" d'Artagnan cried out. "It can't be! He can't—No!" he shook his head. "I need to see him, please! Can't you tell me where he is?"

"He's back at the garrison with Athos and Porthos." He sighed. "When I left for my patrol this morning, last I heard he was near the end."

"Please!" he begged.

"Alright," he agreed, seeing the tears on the boy's cheeks. He saw a poor boy, not a bitten one. "But we have to hurry."

The man turned and started to run and d'Artagnan rushed after him. Any tiredness he was feeling, vanished as a new batch of adrenaline coursed through his weary body. The life that those desolate streets had sucked from him, returned at the promise of Aramis. But he had a really bad feeling in his stomach, and he knew time was running out.

The man slowed down finally, as they approached a the garrison gates, with its held guards. The Musketeer showed him through to the barracks. "He's just at the end. I have to get back to my post. I'm sorry." He murmured to the boy and left.

d'Artagnan stared at the door down the hall, suddenly rooted to the spot. Aramis was bit. Aramis was dead. No. The teen shook his head rapidly. Aramis would not die. He would not let it.

Muffled voices down the hall spurred him on. And he bolted down the hall, bursting through the door. He took in the scene in an instant. Porthos sobbing over Aramis, a dagger in hand. d'Artagnan's body reacted faster than his voice, and he launched himself onto the big man's back before he could deliver the killing blow to their friend.

"What the—!" Porthos reacted instinctually to the attack and slashed backward with the knife.

"Porthos, no!" Athos yelled, but it was too late.

d'Artagnan gave small cry as the blade sliced through his breaches and cut into his thigh, making him bleed. But the boy held on.

Athos rushed over to the pair, over his shock at the sudden appearance of the missing d'Artagnan. He grabbed the Gascon's shoulders, and attempted to pull him off. "Let go, d'Artagnan!"

"No!" d'Artagnan screamed in refusal, clinging tighter to the enraged man. But he knew he was losing the battle. And he did the only that was left to him. He bit Athos' hand.

Athos reeled back in surprise with a yelp, looking down at the broken skin at his thumb joint.

Porthos heard his friend's cry of surprise and pain, and he reared back, ready to crush the boy between him and the wall, when he felt the pain at the back of his neck as d'Artagnan bit him. Porthos tore the boy off his back in white rage, and threw him away like a rag-doll. d'Artagnan skidded across the floor with a thump and landed in a heap.

Porthos spun on him in rage. "What in the 'ell do you think you're doin'?" he demanded, thunderous. "'Ave to do it before 'e turns!" Porthos breathed heavily, and brought his dagger back up to bear, turning back towards Aramis who would complete the transformation from his friend into a monster any minute now. He didn't want to remember his best friend as a biter, and he knew that was all he'd be able to see if the man changed.

"No! You can't!" d'Artagnan jumped to his feet and dove in front of Aramis' bed, blocking the big man's path with stretched arms.

"What the 'ell do you think you're doin', you little bastard!" Porthos shouted harshly at him.

d'Artagnan flinched but stayed firm.

"d'Artagnan," Athos said softly, stepping forward. "I know you care about Aramis and wish for him to live, but he's bit. And for us, that means death."

"You're wrong." The boy said vehemently. "He can't—"

"I'm sick of listening to you!" Porthos bellowed. "Aramis is my best friend, our friend. You know nothing of him. You have no right to be here, to do this." He grabbed the front of the boy's jerkin and hauled him from the floor as if he were a simple sack of laundry.

And then Aramis inhaled sharply, gasping as his eyes snapped open and he sat up, a hand pressed to his chest. He looked at them with confused brown eyes before collapsed back onto the bed, coughing, exhausted. Porthos dropped d'Artagnan and stumbled backwards in shock and distrust, Athos grasped his shoulder, staring wide-eyed.

He twisted on his knees to the laid man. "Aramis?" d'Artagnan gasped in relief, grasping the man's hand in his ash covered ones.

"d'Artangnan." Aramis smiled at the boy, pulling him up onto the edge of the bed. "I was waiting for you. What happened? I feel... better."

"A-Aramis?" Porthos stepped forward, slowly, unsure. "Is that really you?"

Aramis looked over at his friend. "Who else are you expecting it to be?" he mused, but it was tainted with confusion and fear. Porthos gave a chocked chuckle it response, reaching out for his friend, needing to feel that he was truly there, ignoring the boy. Aramis grasped his hand solidly.

"Its really you." He gasped, squeezing.

Athos stood, watching with eyes narrowed in thought as he looked at his friend, not dead, but alive. His blue gaze widened as the memory came to him through a haze of red and shadow as he traced the bite mark on his hand. He looked down at it, and saw the torn out throat of the Red Guard laying in d'Artagnan's cell, never to get up again even after hours passed, the blood coagulated.

"That Red Guard!" the older man blurted, and the others looked at him in confusion, but for d'Artagnan, who gave a small nod. "He had his throat torn out, had to have been dead for a while—but he never turned, he never changed! I knew something was bothering me about it, but at the time I couldn't see it, then I got distracted with the..." he quickly moved on. "But it was that there were no other wounds. The man was killed, but he didn't change, despite his brain being still intact!"

"'Ow is that possible?" Porthos questioned, helping Aramis sit up.

"The bite mark!" Aramis gasped, looking at his wrapped hand. The mark had been scabbed and was healing nicely, but it wouldn't do to flash the world a bite mark, whether from a zombie or a boy, even a healing one, so he'd kept it wrapped.

"So there _is_ a cure?" Porthos asked incredulously, looking around at them all.

"It appears so." Athos agreed.

They all looked at the unkempt boy.

He shifted uncomfortably at the attention. "I don't remember it exactly." d'Artagnan admitted softly, hesitantly. "All I saw was his blue eyes, and I wanted to kill him." He shot Athos an apologetic look, picking unconsciously at his torn sleeve. "My teeth were all I had." He shuddered. "The blood... it went down my throat and up my nose." He inhaled and raised his head. "But when I discovered that Aramis had been bitten, I just _knew_ that I couldn't let you kill him when you thought he was going to turn."

"Well, it's a good thing you did." Aramis muttered.

Porthos rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace as he thought about it, about what he had almost done. If they hadn't saved d'Artagnan in the first place, and he hadn't bitten Aramis, than his best friend would be dead right now. His fingers came smeared pink with blood. He looked at it in confusion, and then at d'Artagnan in disbelief. "Did you bite me?!"

"Uh..." the boy looked awkward. "You gave little option with that."

Aramis laughed. "I think you should be more happy, than mad, Porthos."

The big man was incredulous. "'E bit me!" it was the indignantly of the thing.

"And one day, it'll save our lives." Athos said soberly. He then turned blue eyes onto the teen and raised a brow, "I trust you knew that when you did so?"

"Yes." He said, but a little too slow for the other's liking. "I stopped you from killing Aramis though didn't I?" he protested. "That was my first intention."

"If they haven't said it yet..." Aramis grasped d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Then, thank you, d'Artagnan."

"You saved _me_ , Aramis. Returning the favor was the least that I could do—I'm just so happy that I was right."

Porthos looked at the boy, tensely and stiffly through narrowed eyes. He had nothing to be angry at d'Artagnan with anymore, but thankful because the boy, though inadvertently, saved Aramis. But it seemed unnatural. And completely unnerving to know what kind of power this boy had, to see his friend come back from something that had been killing people left and right for more than half his life, no matter how strong they were. The truth was, he had been afraid of the boy for the longest time. He had been a monster, soulless, a demon—but here, now, he seemed the innocent boy he truly was.

"But is it a one-off or permanent?" Athos murmured.

"I for one, truly hope not to find out," Aramis said. "I do not want to go through that again." They all nodded in agreement on that.

"Yes," Athos drawled after a moment, a spark of humour lighting his eyes. "Perhaps... watch your step next time?"

"Yeah," Porthos piped in after a moment, hoping to put in a bit of normalcy back into the situation. "Maybe you don't 'ave that whole multitaskin' thing as up to par as you thought.

Aramis compressed his lips and looked sly as he turned his gaze from Athos to Porthos. "I just want to thank you both... for giving me something to pla—I mean, think about—while I'm stuck in bed." He cleared his dry throat.

"Always glad to 'elp." Porthos muttered, but grinned nonetheless and the Spaniard returned it.

Aramis gladly took the cup of water that Porthos handed him, taking a much wanted and needed drink for his parched and chalky throat. He handed it back when finished, and furrowed his brows at the dark smears on only his right hand. He rubbed at it. "What's this?" Then he saw the same smears blackening both of d'Artagnan's hands. He took them in his. "What's—?"

"A-ash."

"Ash?" Aramis shook his head in confusion.

"There's this horrible place..." d'Artagnan whispered, clenching his hands. "It's filled with ash and bone... clogged with the souls of the dead..."

Porthos knew instantly of what horror that the boy was speaking. "What were you doin' in the Court?"

d'Artagnan looked at him in confusion. "The Court?"

"The Court of Miracles." Athos explained. "It's the first place where the infection took its hold. The King ordered it razed after the first year." He glanced at Porthos in concern.

"It's bordered off. No one goes there. It's a mass grave with the dead are left unburied. You shouldn't 'ave gone there!" Porthos growled.

d'Artagnan looked at him with wide-eyes.

"Porthos," Aramis chided, giving d'Artagnan a comforting touch. "He doesn't know. You can't blame him."

Porthos let out an explosive breath, running a hand over his short fuzz. "I know," he sighed. "I know. It's just..." he sat heavily in the chair next to the bed.

"I know." Aramis whispered in turn, reaching out and his fingers grazed his friend's sleeve.

Porthos nodded at him. He still had nightmares about that place, even as they held some of the best memories of his life. Of his mother, Charon and Flea. But who would not be haunted by the screams as people, healthy and alive, were condemned to death simply because they were poor and lived in squalor?

"I'm sorry, d'Artagnan." Porthos said finally, and he wasn't sure who was more shocked out of them all. First he apologized, and then said the Gascon's name for the first time since they had known each other. "The Court of Miracles was my 'ome. And I 'ad to watch, able to do nothin', as the people I had grown up with were burnt alive. They did not care who was infected and who was not. It didn't take a genius to see it was a tact of population control ordered by the King, but perpetrated by the Cardinal." He took an uneven breath. "It's a wasteland now. Where it used to be crowded with people, families, children, jus' tryin' to survive in the world like anyone else... it was 'ard livin' but there was always laughter." He sighed and looked at the boy, pushing the clouded tears back. "I know I've treated you unfairly, it was something that you didn't deserve, but was driven from my own fears and protectiveness of Aramis and Athos."

d'Artagnan shook his head, flabbergasted. "No, no. I-I understand."

Aramis sat back in relief; there was no more hostility in the room. But he paled suddenly as he realized something else. "Do you think the Cardinal realizes about the guard? There's been no sight of Lemay"—d'Artagnan flinched at the name still, and the Spaniard gave him an apologetic look—"for days now. Milady must have realized his involvement, and she never plays nice with her toys. How long can he hold out?"

"You're right." Athos carded his fingers through his hair with a heavy sigh. "It's only a matter of time," he agreed and the following silence in the room was loaded with a precariously immanent unknown future.

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _Aargh! I really curse myself with that scene with d'Artagnan, Treville, ( & Ella, Alexandre). I feel like I want to stab myself in the face, but I hope that the rest of the chapter made up for it._

 **Translations:**  
 **Spanish/English:**

 _Comer, beber y ser feliz para mañana que nos podemos morir. =_ "Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die."

 **Latin/English:**  
 _Transit umbra, lux permanet. =_ "Shadow passes, light remains."

y


	7. Chapter 6: (Lemay: Days Past)

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general zombie concerns.**

 **Note: Thanks for the continuing and lovely reviews, you all seem to support I have a claim on sanity, but well just have to see. You've all probably been wondering what the hell has happened/been going on, with Lemay** — **well, eat your hearts out**!

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):** torture **,**

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

* * *

 **Life is Death is Dead**  
 _Chapter 6:_ —

Lemay knelt over the body of the Red Guard on the ground in d'Artagnan's cell. He looked at it in pure astonishment. The alarm was already raised of the break in and stolen 'property'. Right this moment, he was sure Milady was speaking with the Cardinal. When he'd stolen from the Palace two nights prior and reported on the existence of the boy—he wasn't entirely sure that he was believed, but for the Spaniard. So when he returned, and came to d'Artagnan's cell, he acted on the hope that they did. And much to his reduced anxiety, at least on that matter, the day after, the boy was gone.

Part of him was relieved, of course—this had been his intention, for them to rescue the boy. But the discovery he had made upon examining the dead Guard, had him facing the other direction. That part of him that had let him go through with experimenting on the boy. The scientific discovery, the extension of humanity.

There truly was a cure. But he had been so stupid, so foolish. It wasn't in the _blood_! Excitement ripped through him like nothing he'd ever felt before. But then dread boxed with it. This was something amazing, but if the Cardinal or Milady discovered that there was a way...

He took a small dagger from his kit, and with a quick glance to make sure he wasn't being observed, punctured the dead man's skull to his brain through his temple with shaking hands. There had been no mark on the man beforehand, and he prayed that he was the only one to examine the Guard at such closeness, that when he was discovered, there was more panic on the missing Gascon than of a man already dead.

As he heard the approach coming down the hall, he quickly wiped the small dagger clean and put it back in his bag. He quickly shifted one of the long locks of hair to obscure the man's temple, before he climbed to his feet and exhaled. He turned and found the very woman that he feared standing in the open gate.

Milady watched him with green lizard eyes. "Lemay."

"Milady." He bowed his head nervously. "What—" he shot a glance at the body. "What happened? Where's the boy?"

"That's the very same question I came to ask you."

"M-me?" he shook his head in confusion.

"Yes." She slowly started to step towards him from the gateway. "Where is d'Artagnan? Who took him?" She stopped in front of him, close.

His feet were frozen with fear and he shook his head. It took him a long moment to speak around the lump in his throat. This was one of his worst fears, and though he had been expecting it, it didn't make him any less scared. "I don't know." He swore. "I arrived this morning, and he was gone. Just like you. I swear, Milady."

"I'll discover that for myself. Take him." She commanded, and two Red Guards entered the cell.

Lemay scrambled backwards, his eyes wide, and tripped over the dead body of the fallen Guard. The two soldiers grabbed either of his arms and hauled him to his feet.

"You can't do this!" he screamed as they dragged him down the tunnel. "You need me! You need me!"

"Do you see an immune boy anywhere around here?" Milady wondered, following after in a casual pace. "So until then, I have something more fun in store for you."

He was dragged to the middle cell that held the two tilted and altered tables, the cells on either side held those that had been injected with d'Artagnan's blood, and then bitten. The very first cell held the stolen peoples that were still in the transition of the fever, but the people in the third cell could hardly be called that any longer. Soon, they would be shipped to a different location, that allowed more privacy within the city.

d'Artagnan's blood put the bite's infection into remission. It was not a cure, but instead, a person infused with his taken blood, who then suffered from a zombie bite endured from a prolonged fever. Upon dying, and turning, instead of becoming the deadened, mindless flesh-eating creatures, they seemed to retain, not high-level brain functionality but sustained brain function enough for that of a simple-minded small child. They were _commandable_ , or could be with a certain amount of strict programming.

So the Cardinal had started himself a dead army, but still wanted of his immunity to the disease. But with the boy gone, that was shortly becoming an impossibility!

Lemay struggled against the two Guards, but he'd never been much of a fighter, and soon, they had him strapped to one of the tables. His ankles, thighs, torso, wrists, shoulders. He strained against them, despite knowing and seeing himself how strong they were. It was different when he was on the other side, and perhaps he thought this was his punishment.

"You're going to tell me everything I want to know, Lemay." She murmured.

"I've said what I had to say. Despite you wanting to hear different, it's the truth nonetheless." He told her.

"I'm not going to start out gentle. You see, the Cardinal is very angry that his prize was stolen from him. You know how he gets about these things. So I tell you what—tell me what I want to know now, and nothing will happen to you."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Lemay protested. "If I helped the boy escape, why would I return?" He was asking that question of himself right now. _Why_ had he returned?

"Mm." She just chuckled softly as she walked around to his feet and the small table where she'd set up her tools. He craned his neck to watch her. She smiled as she made a show of choosing, before she finally picked up something so thin and miniscule, that Lemay could hardly see what he was looking at in the torchlight. "See this? Looks so innocent and puny, but you wouldn't believe the pain it causes." She came back round his side and gave the man a better sight of... the sewing needle. "Shall I show you?"

She reached for his hand and his eyes widened. He clenched it into a tight fist. She simply tsked at him, and after a moment, pried his pinkie from the fold. She lined up the point at the tip of his finger, above the bone, and with thimble-d thumb— _pushed_.

Lemay gritted his teeth at the unexpected pain, and he tried to fight the scream at the back of his throat as she continued to push the needle into his flesh further. Until finally, the scream was torn from his as the pain became too much, as she kept pushing until the needle was entirely embedded in his pinkie, claming its whole length. The metal forced it straight, and if he managed to bend the digit, he'd just hurt himself further by pushing the needle deeper.

"It wasn't a lie." She said, looking down upon him, gasping. "Now, tell me where and who helped you take d'Artagnan."

"I don't know!" he cried.

"Wrong answer." She retrieved another needle.

"Please!"

"Oh, Lemay. You simple fool." She cooed, and pried another finger loose. "You know how this works."

He screamed as she pushed the needle deep into his ring finger. Blood smearing his fingers and hers. And then she took another and another, asking him each time. His answers, if there were any, were lost in his screams of pain as they peeled the walls. She could hear the movement in the next cell over, the stirrings that his racket and pain was causing in the heightened zombies, the smell of his blood.

She gave him a moment to think it over, before she moved onto his other hand.

* * *

Milady sighed in boredom and frustration. It had been days, and she seemed to be getting nowhere with Lemay. Either she was losing her touch, or Lemay simply was telling the truth and didn't know a thing because there was no possibility that the weasel was strong enough to resist her ministrations. She'd known this man for years—he was a coward. One more push, she could feel it. She just needed that one bit to break him, and he'd crack open like an egg and that golden yolk would be hers.

"I've been going through your things and all your reports," she grinned at him, "And I discovered this little treasure." She went to the side table and picked up the large clamp and reached with it into the small crate. Lemay paled, he knew exactly what that was. "Recognize it?" she turned back to him, holding the clamp at arm's length, the soft groaning emitting from the ragged vocal cords of the zombie head held it its grip.

He shuddered at the sight of his own invention. "You're going to turn me?"

"Perhaps," she purred. "But not just yet." She stepped closer and showed the head off, bringing it close to his face. He turned his head away and whimpered, smelling its death breath. "As you can see, I've made a modification of my own!"

Lemay slowly turned his head back, at how close the bitter was. He was shaking so bad, his gaze could hardly focus. But finally, he found her 'modification' in its working maw. She'd pulled all of its teeth.

"What do you expect that to do?" he blurted in confusion and instantly realized his mistake.

"Since you asked so nicely," she smirked. "I'll show you."

* * *

He was not a very brave man, very courageous. He's made many mistakes in his life, most of which happened after he lost his wife and unborn child. He'd let himself be taken in and turned towards the Cardinal's and Milady's darkness. It was years before he convinced himself to turn towards the Queen and Treville, to become their spy.

But he wasn't strong enough for this. He was fooling himself if he thought that he was. Milady knew it too. He swore to himself that he would die with these secrets safe. Maybe in a different life…

"Okay! Alright! Please!" Lemay screamed. "Please! I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything!"

Milady smiled. "Well, don't stop now."

In the end, he kept one of them. Perhaps, in the long run, the most important.

* * *

"What are you doing?" he asked her, gasping heavily, pain fuzz-ing out his vision as he turned his head and watched her. The torture had started with the sewing needles and had ended with the zombies. She had long since cut away his clothes. What happened in between was something that his body would not soon forget. Hi mind on the other hand…

"Oh, one last thing before I go." And she infused him with the remainder of d'Artagnan's blood.

He struggled against his bonds, and just as before, they held tight, keeping him in place for her to do unto him whatever she wished.

He sent a prayer up to God for forgiveness as she left him to the blood, and turned to the crates again on another table. The severed zombie head she turned back to him with, its teeth fully intact, was one that he knew well. Like the other one, both had been used on multiple occasions to bite d'Artagnan.

He didn't deserve the kindness and amazement of d'Artagnan's own bite. He didn't deserve to have his life saved like that, only to put the boy through torture.

"Let me go! I can still help!" he begged, desperate.

She chuckle. "Don't worry on that account, you're going to be plenty of help."

And she let the monster bite him.

* * *

"You have something worth reporting?" Richelieu didn't even look up from the papers on his desk at her entry.

"Yes." And that made him pay attention. "I was starting to believe that Lemay was an innocent in all of this—well, as innocent as a man of his reputation could be—but I can be very _persuasive._ "

"Congratulations." The Cardinal deadpanned. His eyes narrowed. "Now where is the boy?"

"I was reporting to you first." Milady swallowed. "It was the Musketeers that took him."

"Musketeers!" he spat, jumping to his feet in rage. "Treville?"

"His Inseparables." She admitted. "Though Treville undoubtedly had a hand in it, Athos wouldn't make a move unless his precious Captain gave the order."

"Your _husband_ has been a thorn in my backside that is starting to turn into a _knife_!" Richelieu slammed his fist against his desk, making some of the contents rattle with the force. "Lately, your past has been causing me more trouble than you are worth."

"If it weren't for me, we would not have a lead." She protested.

"If it weren't for _you_ ," he sneered, "I would already have a cure!"

She inhaled sharply and clenched her jaw to refrain from making further comment, digging herself deeper. Instead, she said. "Yes, Your Eminence. Treville—"

"Treville is nothing but a mouth piece!" Richelieu spat in return. "It's the Queen that controls the puppets. Each of their strings are wrapped around her fingers. Treville, his pets, Lemay—even the King! As long as she's by his side, he'll never listen to me completely."

"Impossible, even if to consider." Milady denied, reading his implication loud and clear. "She never leaves the Palace. If she's killed there, the blame would surely turn fast to us where the Musketeers are concerned."

" _Us_?" he scoffed, sitting. "You are nothing but a shadow in this place."

Her green eyes brightened with anger. "Without me—"

"Without you, what?" he said, coldly. She chewed her own words, staying silent. "You'll just have to take care of her guard dogs."

Milady nodded.

He raised a brow at her as she stayed where she was, instead of leaving and going to her task. "Was there something else?"

"No." She said after a moment. "None at all." She turned and made her leave, a curve on her red lips as they gears turned behind her lizard eyes. "Prepare to see my ghost before you die, Athos." She whispered. "And d'Artagnan, don't think I could ever forget about you."

* * *

Lemay's belief of having kept an important secret from Richelieu was dashed, even as his brain felt like it was melting through his slow, high-burning fever from d'Artagnan's blood and the bite, before he knew nothing more as the zombie-change turned him into something else—was soon, not to be the truth, even as much as he had tried to make it so in his last moments of freedom.

"Well?" Richelieu demanded of the other, grimy man in the apron.

The coroner jumped at his harsh tone and quickly turned to the body of the Red Guard upon his examination table, stripped of his uniform. "The torn throat was what killed him." He said, gesturing to ragged throat. "And upon first impression, I would have said that the stab wound to the temple killed him a second time for the change. But when I examined him further—it seems that the stab to the temple was administered _hours_ **after** the body's death."

"What are you saying?"

"Well... the amount of time that the body originally died and then was stabbed in the brain, the man should have transformed into a zombie. But that doesn't not appear to be the case. His eyes are still completely blue, with no diminishment of the irises whatsoever." He shook his head, scratching it in his bafflement. "I don't know what you want me to tell you."

Richelieu was a quiet for a long time, and the coroner quickly became nervous in the muteness. The First Minister gave a quiet gasp and his steel eyes widened. That fool Lemay! He had it entirely the wrong way. It was not in the boy's blood, but his _bite_! He had found the cure, the one he had been searching for for such a long and finally had proof that his search had not been futile.

"You'd better not fail, Milady." He uttered, a smile splitting his lips as he stared at the dead Guard like he was the jewel that lead him to the crown.

He would have d'Artagnan, he would know the Gascon's secrets—know what made him tick.

* * *

She'd had reports from her spies of the Inseparables leaving the city a few days before, but had no reports of their return through the gates. Only for days later, of the rumour that the Spaniard Musketeer was bitten. One of Athos' closest friends—dying! And on the same day, she'd gotten her reports of d'Artagnan. The word that a bitten boy was in the city spread fast and sent the Red Guards scrambling. She had had her worry that Athos had managed to smuggle the boy out of the city, she had no doubt that he could have managed so, but this news was very pleasing indeed. Trapped in the city walls, she would have the boy.

Milady gave a small smile. Her husband clearly had no control in the matter—so why not cause him a little more chaos?

* * *

...Now...

* * *

"Look at the state you're in." Aramis chided from where he lay in his bed, propped up with pillows at his back. It had been several hours since he'd survived the zombie bite, and though initially exhausted, his appetite and thirst were big, but his friends made him stay his place. "You look worse off than me, and I just died. What happened?"

d'Artagnan's cheeks heated as he sat in one of the chairs and allowed Athos to treat the slash on his thigh that Porthos gave him when he jumped the man.

"Other than _this,_ he mean's." Athos nodded to his thigh.

"Oi!" Porthos protested. "'E jumped me. I was surprised." He looked a spot embarrassed, scratching the back of his head. "Didn't I say I was sorry?"

"Actually..." d'Artagnan hesitantly teased, feeling more comfortable with the man after their heart-to-heart. But he didn't care. It was just another mark among many.

Porthos glowered at the boy, but allowed his brow to twitch in slight amusement as the other two men smiled. "You got me back with this bite, didn't you?"

"I still don't think that's something you should really complain about." Aramis deadpanned. "Saved _my_ life."

Porthos sighed. "'Ow did this turn 'round on me again? Weren't we on _'is_ state?" he pointed at the boy.

d'Artagnan looked slightly irked at having the conversation directed back at him, for which he had so expertly steered away from himself. Athos finished treating the cut on his thigh and stood again, stepping back. He gave the teen a single look. d'Artagnan sighed and looked away, picking at his torn sleeve with cleaned fingers.

"I panicked." He muttered quietly.

"What was that?" Aramis asked. Athos even had a hard time hearing the boy, and he was just five feet away.

"When you guys didn't return by that third day..." he shook his head. "All I could think, was that something terrible had happened. So I forced myself out the door. But for all my determination, I soon realized that I had no idea where the garrison was so I tried to ask someone. The old man seemed to think that I was trying to steal from him, and shoved me to the ground. When he grabbed me, he tore my sleeve and saw the bites on my arm and started shouting. People crowded around, the Red Guards called for… I managed to get free and I just ran blindly, until I couldn't run any longer and I hid in an alley through the night. In the morning, I was spotted and I broke through the partition at the back of the alley that led to the Court of Miracles." He wasn't the only one that shivered at the name and memory. "When I managed to find my way out of that place and back onto the streets, I ran into a Musketeer and asked him about Aramis." He looked at the Spaniard. "He told me you were bit, and he showed me here."

"That was reckless!" Aramis protested at the end of his adventure. The Gascon almost looked mutinous in response.

"He's right." Athos nodded, his expression stern. "Your bites were seen. The Red Guards were alerted and a search is being issued right now for you. Milady and the Cardinal will have been informed. If they believed you out of the city, the same could not be said now. It was pure luck that you weren't caught, and ran into a Musketeer. _Nothing_ else. I explicitly told you to stay in my apartment and leave for _nothing_. You gave your word, d'Artagnan—and you broke it just the same!" he ran frustrated fingers through his hair.

d'Artagnan's lips tightened, looking completely thrashed. "I—" he suddenly felt that he wanted to burst into tears. It wasn't because Athos had scared him, but because the man was angry and disappointed at him. "I'm sorry!" he gasped with uneven breaths. "I did not mean to. All I could think was you were all I had left, and I couldn't lose you like I lost Pa!"

Athos sighed and suddenly softened. He dropped to his knees in front of the boy. "I did not mean to be so harsh." He said. "But what if something had happened to you? When I went to my apartment to retrieve you and found it empty. I dreaded the worst. When I found out that a boy was seen with a bite, it was one of the worst possible fears that I could have held come true. We risked our lives to rescue you, d'Artagnan. You owe it to us, to not risk yourself so foolishly again. Can you swear that you will think before you act, that you will not let your heart rule your head so?"

The teen nodded desperately, tears of relief pricking his brown eyes. "I swear, Athos. I swear,"

"Good." He patted the boy's knee, and pushed to his feet. "One less thing to worry about." Being around Aramis certainly softened his heart. But d'Artagnan was one of the bravest people that he knew and had played his own part in the matter.

Any doubts that the teen had that these men were his friends and important to him, vanished with all that Athos had said, despite how new his connection with Porthos was.

They all jumped at the knock at the door. Athos stood and answered it to find a messenger boy.

"Sir," the boy nodded. "A message for you, sir." He held out the folded parchment to Athos who took it with a nod, fishing a coin from his pocket. He shut the door after the boy left, turning back to the room, looking at the blank pressed red wax seal.

"Well?" Aramis raised a brow at the blue-eyed man. "Who's it from?"

Athos' face was contorted into a specifically blank mask. "Milady." He replied, knowing the addressed scrawl anywhere.

"The Wicked Witch is calling!" Porthos cawed unhelpfully.

Athos made no move and continued to stare at it.

"Read it." Aramis encouraged. "She obviously knows we rescued d'Artagnan, and is desperate enough to reveal herself."

Athos nodded and took the seat that Porthos had offered him. Lemay must have finally talked and he didn't want to know what she had done to make the matter so—just that they would not be seeing the royal physician again. Taking a deep breath, the Musketeer Lieutenant broke the wax seal and opened the folded parchment.

" _Dear husband_ —"

d'Artagnan stilled at that. "She's your _wife_?"

Athos nodded, but he kept his eyes trained on the letter, reading silently. It had taken years to learn how to school his expression, his heartbreak a keen lesson. His hands trembled slightly with his filling dread, anger and sadness.

"So... that part was true." The boy muttered, turning ashen.

"What was true?" Porthos raised a brow.

d'Artagnan swallowed as Porthos and Aramis looked at him, but Athos still had his eyes on the letter. The boy was unable to speak, unable to say the tainted words. The truth was, he hadn't time to think back on that moment in the ruins, it seemed so long ago, so unimportant. The same could not be said now. The whole scene took on an entirely different meaning now.

Athos finally looked up from the letter, his blue gaze piercing as he looked over at the uncomfortable boy. "She... seduced you?" d'Artagnan's bitten lip and avoided gaze was all the answer that he needed to know it was the truth.

"What?" both Aramis and Porthos exclaimed.

"She's a Cradle Monster!" Porthos gasped and Aramis managed to kick him from where he sat at the foot of his bed.

"I'm sorry." Athos whispered. The other three looked at him in complete shock. "It's my fault—"

"You cannot blame yourself for this, Athos." Aramis interrupted in denial. "You cannot heave all that she does onto your own shoulders."

"Can't I?" he demanded, jumping to his feet and palming his forehead. "If I had the guts to kill her myself after Thomas but I... took the coward's way out."

Porthos stepped to the distressed man and grasped either of his shoulders, giving him a shake. "You loved 'er, Athos. We all do stupid things because of love." Athos flinched at that last remark, but the big man pushed forward. "You're as 'uman as the rest of us. She 'as a mind and will of 'er own. This is who she was before you met 'er. You can't change someone who doesn't want to change. There was nothin' you could 'ave done, other than what you did. You saved yourself by allowin' her that chance, and it lead you to _us_."

Athos exhaled as he looked back into his friend's firm and dark brown eyes, before he gave a miniscule nod in acknowledgement. Porthos squeezed his shoulders and gave a nod as well, before he stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed, to give the man his room.

Athos ran his fingers through his hair and turned his gaze back to the guilt and shame ridden boy. "d'Artagnan—"

"I'd just buried Pa..." d'Artagnan whispered hoarsely before the older man could continue. "The bites fever was laden in my body. I heard a woman scream, and I didn't even think about it. I saved her. The fever completely overwhelmed me then, and I passed out. I didn't expect to wake up again—but then I did, my fever broken. She had saved me, instead of killing me. I didn't want to _think_ , I didn't want to _feel_ ," he sobbed, "I wanted to lose myself from the world!" He'd believed she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, he was sickened by the thought now. "She said... she said her husband abused her and was a killer. As soon as she said your name—" he shook his head. "All I could think, was of killing you!" He tried to explain, but he just seemed to be making excuses for himself when that was not his intention!

"How could you have known?" Athos said softly. There was no judgement or accusation in his voice. "She is a liar and a manipulator, that's what she does. She did it to me and she did it to you. But we're not going to give her that power any longer." d'Artagnan sniffed and scrubbed his teary eyes with his sleeve and he nodded to the man. Athos looked at each of them evenly. "Let us never speak of this." He said coldly.

An awkward and uncomfortable silence followed.

"Keep going," Aramis instructed finally, nodding to the letter. "What did she write?"

Athos nodded and seemed glad enough to turn back to it in that moment, but the feeling soon fell through. He made sure to avoid over her mocking words of himself, her mention of Thomas, and her seduction of the boy at his most vulnerable.

"You were right about Lemay, it was him who told her about us—God knows how she did it. She knows d'Artagnan is still in Paris, the rumour of a bitten boy in the city a confirmation of that." He glanced sideways at the boy; d'Artagnan grimaced in guilt at that last part. Athos turned a droll stare upon the Spaniard next as he continued, "She expresses her compassion upon your death, hearing of you being bitten on our last assignment."

"A genuine sympathy, I assume." Aramis commented wryly.

"Genuine malice, you mean." Porthos said.

"Yes," he nodded. "I was wondering why it sounded weird. Wait!" Aramis held up his hand, his brow furrowed as he thought. "If she believes me dead, then—"

"She must not know about the cure?" Athos finished the thought. "Perhaps."

"That Red Guard with 'is throat torn out and no 'ead wound is a big indicator, isn't it?" Porthos pointed out in disagreement.

The older man nodded his accent on that. "Or just that Aramis wasn't bit by d'Artagnan."

There was a quiet moment of contemplation as they all thought on the matter, but the truth was, they could never truly know unless they asked the woman directly.

"Perhaps it's something used to our advantage…" Athos said.

"Whether they know of the cure, or not—she's coming for me, and they're never going to stop!" the teen wailed.

"She'll never get her hands on you again, d'Artagnan." Aramis swore vehemently. "We won't let that happen."

d'Artagnan seemed to be reassured by the Spaniard's fierce tone and repeated promise, and Athos and Porthos' accompanying nods of agreement and he gave a nod. He hated to feel so weak and vulnerable, but he couldn't stop that dark fear he felt towards the woman and the Cardinal.

"Treville should know of this," Athos said suddenly. "Porthos?" he jerked his head to the door and the big man followed him out, leaving the Spaniard and Gascon alone, but not before giving Aramis a pointed look that said they would speak privately later. It seemed the teen was the only one who didn't notice the abrupt and meaningful halt to the conversation, too distracted upon matters just discussed.

Finding out that d'Artagnan had had sex with Milady was a useless information, and the marksman almost wished that the teen could have kept it to himself. He could see the same thoughts passing through the Gascon's mind as well. He was sure there was several things that the boy wished he could change.

"Get the sewing kit," Aramis instructed the Gascon. They were both in need of a distraction. "We might as well mend your clothing while there's time."

d'Artagnan nodded and after a moment, went and retrieved the small kit from the trunk at the foot of Aramis' bed as indicated and sat next to the Spaniard upon the bed.

[tbc]

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 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _So, if any of you started to believe I was lucid, I sure as hell don't seem it now, not even to myself. *First, admit it to oneself*. Anyway... insanity. Hoped it made some sense. d'Artagnan's blood is_ _ **not**_ _a cure. His blood makes zombie drones apparently, that can be controlled like dogs. Lemay's fate seems pretty sealed—maybe. The Cardinal already knows that there is some form of communication between the Queen and Treville, and has discovered the cure and is raising a dead army(?) [exactly where am I going with this, I ask myself upon my reflection in the mirror]. And, what exactly does Milady plan by 'revealing' herself to Athos?_

Hmm...

y


	8. Chapter 7: ('Kill you twice')

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general zombie concerns.**

 **Note: _MusketeerAdventure_ made a review and asked if I was going to use the Court of Miracles again. The truth was, I wasn't even going to use it that one time I did, a couple chapters ago. But it got me thinking... so thanks!**

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Life is Death is Dead**  
 _Chapter 7:_ —

Aramis was dead.

Only d'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Treville knew the absolute truth that he was not. His funeral was held the next morning after he recovered from the fever, only but a skeleton crew of Musketeers to guard the garrison, as the others gathered in the crowded graveyard behind the garrison, leaving the young Spaniard and Gascon alone. And to make their withdrawal from the station.

"Are you sure you're okay?" d'Artagnan asked the man as the pair walked together through the streets and headed towards Athos' apartment, their faces hidden by raised hoods. They did not look a man and a boy, but two men, even at just fifteen, d'Artagnan was grown to his true height.

After receiving the letter from Milady the evening before, Athos had warned them to be extremely cautious when they made the plan that it was better if Aramis and d'Artagnan left the garrison. With Milady 'outing' herself to Athos, who knew what else she might do.

Aramis gave a quiet chuckle. "I'm alright." He assured, and put an arm around the teen's cloaked shoulders, pulling him to his side as the continued to walk.

Their conversation halted as they turned into Athos' street and d'Artagnan automatically tensed. Aramis squeezed his shoulder and drew them off to the side of the street under an awning. His sharp gaze pierced through each and every person on the street, before his gaze moved to the buildings' windows, doorways, and balconies. But no one seemed suspicious or like they didn't belong, like they were watching the apartment.

"Come on." He murmured, and he and the teen continued down the street, before slipping into Athos' building and up the stairs to his apartment. Once inside, he bolted the door.

Nearly seventy-two hours, and the room had lost any warmth that had filled it, after being occupied for a week constantly with people.

Aramis took off his cloak and folded it over the back of one of the chairs, before he knelt by the fireplace, placing some logs with the ash. "Don't just stand there," he mused. "Hand me the flint?"

Flushing, d'Artagnan handed him the flint from the mantle. The man struck it several times before the sparks took, and he grinned, rubbing his palms together over the budding flame. "That's better!" he grinned and stood, turning to the boy with the knitted brow. "You don't need to worry," he said, and reach forward to unbuckle the distracted d'Artagnan's cloak. He put it over the chair with his own and took his weapons belt and hung it off the back as well. "Athos and Porthos will be here by evening." He pulled out another chair from the small table and tapped it. "Sit, and eat some of this." He pulled the basket of food to him and started to sort through, the still edible and the bad.

d'Artagnan did as instructed, and ate what Aramis put in front of him, even as he didn't have much appetite. When he thought of Milady now, it was with a new kind of hate and disgust. He wondered what Athos could have done to her to make her hate him so much. He barely knew the man, but could never see him as a man who beat his wife. Anything that Milady said, could _not_ be trusted.

"Aramis?"

"Hmm?" the marksman looked over at the boy from where he sat across from him at the end of the table, eating without enthusiasm himself. He was worried. Of course he was worried! It was hard pretending to be dead, but it was better this way. How could they explain that he had survived the bite? At the moment, it was too risky with the Cardinal and Milady.

"What..." d'Artagnan took a nervous breath, but made himself push forward. "What happened between Athos and Milady?"

His brow flicked slightly in his unpreparedness for the question. "It's not my past to tell." He said softly. d'Artagnan exhaled and nodded, avoiding his gaze and staring down at the tabletop.

It had been last night, when d'Artagnan had finally dropped into a fitful sleep, that Athos and Porthos had pulled him away into another room, and told him the complete contents of Milady's letter. Holding the letter himself, reading its contents and growing sick and angry at each passing word. He could feel the ill-intent just by touching it. They argued quietly, and vehemently over its contents for a bit, before he and Porthos managed to get Athos to swear on their lives that he wasn't going to comply with Milady's plan of a meeting.

Aramis yawned, suddenly perhaps, or not. "I think I'm going to take a little nap. They're going to be a bit, might as well get something productive out of this whole thing, hmm? You should too." He stood and stoked the fire before he toed off his boots and discarded his frock.

"I'm not tired." He shook his head, his mind was racing too fast, and his heart too worried to even think about it.

"You've hardly slept." He chided, sitting on the edge of Athos' bed against the wall, which had d'Artagnan's claim on it for days. "We don't know what will happen in the next few days. It'll be best if we both have our wits about us," he looked pointedly at the boy, "We're _both_ still healing." He patted the bed next to him.

"Sleep together?" the boy exclaimed in shock.

"I don't _bite._ " d'Artagnan glowered and Aramis laughed lightly. "Athos, Porthos, and I sleep next to each other all the time. I'm sure you've done with your father." He said softly. "Sometimes, it's too hard to sleep alone."

Aramis laid down, turning on his side so he faced the wall, his back to the boy. d'Artagnan didn't move, but continued to stare at the man. His father had been a constant presence in his life, waking through his days, and sleeping through his nights. They'd shared a tent, it was all they could manage. A warm and constant presence next to each other. He'd never shun his father's presence. It wasn't until he got older, that he started to sleep outside the tent, out in the open and beneath the stars by the fire. Only returning to the tent and his father in the winter, or when it rained.

He bit his lip in uncertainty. He hadn't slept fitly since his father's death, it was true. He'd never slept _alone_ in his life until this last month. He pulled his boots from his feet and stood, slowly approaching the bed. He gulped and carefully sat on the edge of the bed. He laid down on his side, tight and tense. It was a single bed, small. His back pressed against Aramis'. He could feel the man's every breath, the rise and the fall. He could feel his warmth, and d'Artagnan relaxed. He pulled the blanket up and stared with hooded eyes into the fire directly on the other side of the room.

The soft flickering flame, Aramis' even and constant breaths behind him—lulled him into sleep.

Aramis' framed lips curved silently upwards as he felt d'Artagnan settle down on the bed behind him. He hadn't been sure the teen would take him up on the friendly offer, but was glad when he did. It made him glad that d'Artagnan trusted him enough.

The teen's firm presence at his back, helped him doze as well. He was still exhausted, though it had been little more than 24 hours since he'd broken through the bite's fever. He had rested, of course, though not in the deep slumber that his body would have preferred; his heart clouded too much with worry. That bite was something that he truly never wanted to experience again, and it sickened him to think how many times d'Artagnan had been through the exact same thing.

d'Artagnan was as strong as any of them, perhaps even stronger. The boy's resolve was amazing. And it seemed a gift to watch the boy strive to fight and to live. It was souls like his that built and created and protected.

It was a soft whimper that brought the man to blurry and confused awareness in the dark room with the unattended fire's dying glow.

"Don'... leave me..." the breathless plea behind him had him rolling in the tight space on the bed to find d'Artagnan locked in a nightmare

Sweat clung to his skin, his brow furrowed deeply and the corner of his lips pulled downwards. And he writhed in such a controlled space upon the bed, like he was confined instead of free.

"d'Artagnan," he called, grasping the boy's shoulder. "d'Artagnan!" he gave the boy a shake. "Wake up."

d'Artagnan's eyes snapped open, but his brown eyes were clouded. He gave a small cry, clearly seeing something that was not there.

"It's me! It's Aramis." The marksman cupped the side of his neck, guiding the boy's to meet his own. "It's Aramis, d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan clouded eyes cleared, and he looked up into Aramis' kind brown eyes above him. A sudden sob broke through his lips and a moment later, he was clinging breathlessly to the man. It hardly took the Spaniard a second to wrap his arms around the shaking boy.

"You're alright now. You're safe!" he hushed the boy soothingly.

d'Artagnan made no further sound, but Aramis felt every breath against his ear and ruffle through his unruly hair. Finally, slowly, his breath calmed down and Aramis let the boy sit back from his hold. The Gascon looked embarrassed as he flicked his uneven bangs from his sweaty forward.

Aramis looked at him with concern. "Are you alright?"

"It was just a dream," he whispered.

Aramis nodded. "Do you want to talk about it? It might help,"

d'Artagnan gave a slight shiver and shook his head. "It don't want to think about it. Please..."

"We don't have to if you don't want to." The Gascon nodded and exhaled a breath in relief. The was a creak on the landing outside the door, and they both tensed. "That'll be Athos and Porthos finally."

d'Artagnan nodded, rubbing the nightmare from his brown eyes and Aramis rose from the bed, walking to the door as the tattoo was knocked. He smiled over his shoulder at the boy as he reached up and slide the bolt back. Just as he faced back and started to pull the door open, it was kicked inward with a force. The bolt on the door punched him in the forehead and threw him backwards into the room. He lay on the floor by the table, senseless.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan screamed, jumping to his feet in horror. He ran to the man near the table, but his attention was turned as two cloaked figures stepped over the threshold. Two men that were most definitely not Porthos and Athos.

"Grab the boy, I'll take care of the other one." One of the men commanded the other, and the boy felt a phantom shiver go through him at the sound of his rough voice. The thicker of the two started to step forward.

Instinct kicked in, and he grasped the sword hilt from where it hang in Aramis' belt on the back of the chair. His body instantly turned into stance as he faced the two men. It had been such a long time since he'd held a sword, any weapon for that matter; it felt heavy in his grasp. The thicker one paused.

"What are you waiting for?" the leader demanded. "Get him!" Thick pulled out his sword. "Alive!" he reminded.

The man struck first, and d'Artagnan blocked the strike. It reverberated up his arm and he gritted his teeth. He wasn't fooling around, he couldn't leave it to chance. The Gascon made his own charge next, but feinted at the last moment, spinning around to the man's back, and slashing with a shout. The thick man cried out in pain, dropping to his knees and then his face—dead.

Breathing heavily, d'Artagnan quickly faced the second man at his sharp laugh, backing up several paces with the body between them, but stayed standing protectively in front of the still unconscious Aramis.

The fact that he had only ever faced against zombies before, never entered his mind. That he'd only ever killed one man before, on the night of Alexandre's death, with no duel at all. It had just been instinct that had taken over as he faced against the thick man who had clearly underestimated him and fought with a handicap.

"I can see why she'd obsessed with you!" the man said, and he dropped the hooded cloak from around his shoulders to the floor. Loose and dark greasy hair hung at his shoulders in strands. Rough whiskers peppered his chin and cheeks. His thin lips had a cruel twist to them.

d'Artagnan's body seized up as fear suddenly attempted to strangle his heart as he looked into the blue-eyes of the true murderer of Alexandre. Gaudet slowly started to stalk towards the frozen boy.

"She says you're special." He said. "Is that why your daddy died for you? Hmm?"

And suddenly, d'Artagnan's frozen fear was shattered. "You killed Pa!" he screeched. He saw red, nothing else. Rage swept through him, boiling his blood, freezing his brain, and steeling his heart. "I'll kill you twice!"

"You're fighting a real man now, boy!"

d'Artagnan charged at him with a cry, jumping over the other dead Guard. Gaudet parried the blow, pushing the boy back. d'Artagnan charged right back at him, chopping and slicing—heedless.

"Don't you want to see your girlfriend again?" Gaudet mocked him, egging him. He did it on purpose, but the boy didn't realize it. The angrier the Gascon became, the harder and more unrelenting he attacked—tiring his still not recovered body out even faster.

Aramis moaned low, the clash of steel and wordless shrieks piercing his pounding and aching skull. He slowly sat up, nausea climbing his throat, he felt a trickling sensation between his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw the dead man on the floor not too far from him. Saw d'Artagnan raging against another man, their swords crossing.

d'Artagnan was flagging, covered in sweat, breathless, bootless. Gaudet used the opportunity of his weakening state to lock their blades. The man gave a malicious grin as d'Artagnan looked into his face with rage narrowed eyes and finally, _finally_ , realized his mistake—but by then it was too late. Athos had begged him...

Gaudet twisted the sword from the teen's hand and tossed it away, and wrapped his arm around the back of the boy's shoulders, locking him against his chest.

"I'm going to kill your friend over there," he sneered at the boy, not noticing that Aramis had awakened. "Going to make you watch, helpless, as I did your father!"

d'Artagnan let out a cry of rage and reared his head back. He cracked it forward. Gaudet let out a shout as his nose crunched and he released d'Artagnan.

Aramis yanked his pistol from his belt on the chair behind him. "d'Artagnan!" he shouted as the boy fell to the floor. The report of his pistol was like thunder in the small room. Gaudet stood still for a moment, still holding his broken and gushing nose, before a wheezy breath left him and he dropped to his knees before falling on his front. "d'Artagnan," Aramis grasped his shoulder, having scooted over to the boy, and nearly got his eyes clawed out in startled response. "Are you hurt?"

d'Artagnan exhaled, his shoulders slumping, and shook his head. He stared at Guadet's dead body for a long moment, Aramis' hand on his shoulder a grounding presence. He finally turned back to the man. "Your forehead!" he exclaimed.

"Hmm?" Aramis touched his forehead in confusion with a grimace, and his fingers came back with blood on them. "No wonder my head's killing me."

"Come on." d'Artagnan jumped to his feet and pulled Aramis to his, guiding him to one of the chairs, the two dead men forgotten at the moment.

He went to the fire and threw another log into the embers, stoking the flame back into life and casting the dim room into further light. He poured the stale water from the jug at the side table and into the basin that he'd brought to the table, and soaked Aramis' handkerchief in it. He dabbed at the man's forehead, cleaning the wound and the trickle of blood away.

"Am I scarred for life?" Aramis joked, disliking the tense and sombre expression on the teen.

There was a laceration, and a lump already starting to form. The bruise, a dark blemish on his forehead, following quickly. "No." He shook his head. "It'll be tender for a while, but it won't scar."

Aramis took the damp handkerchief from his hands and pressed it the cool cloth gently to his forehead. "Thanks a relief! Wouldn't want to mess with perfection," he winked and d'Artagnan gave a tight smile. Aramis sighed. "d'Artagnan... thank you for saving my life. If it weren't for you..." he shook his head.

"If it weren't for me, they never would have come." He muttered darkly.

Aramis shook his head. "Don't say that!" he pushed the boy down into the chair next to him. "I'd rather have you here _every_ day. Understand?"

d'Artagnan nodded after a moment. What mattered, was that Aramis was alright, and that Gaudet was dead. It didn't matter _who_ had killed him. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"How did they know the password?" Aramis murmured in thought. In retrospect, they should have changed it.

"I always wondered if I would see him again," d'Artagnan whispered.

Aramis furrowed his brows. "You know them?"

"Just the one that you shot. He... he was the one that killed—killed my Pa." He gulped.

"Oh, d'Artagnan!" he gasped.

The first groan of the turned Red Guard halted any further conversation. It twitched and shifted as its body reanimated.

Aramis started to stand, but d'Artagnan stopped him. "I got it." He took the main _gauche_ from Aramis' hanging belt and stepped to the thicker Guard. He bent, and thrust the large dagger through the back of its skull without a bit of emotion, stilling its first attempt to rise. He stood and went to the other.

d'Artagnan didn't immediately stab Gaudet through the head, but instead he turned the dead man onto his back and sat on his chest, waiting.

"d'Artagnan—" Aramis whispered in horror as he realized the teen's intent.

The Gascon gave a sharp shake of his head, not taking his eyes from the dead man. "I said I'd kill him twice—at least let me kill him once."

Aramis bit the inside of his cheek but stayed his place. He knew this was something that d'Artagnan needed to do, if only to help himself start to recover from his father's death.

d'Artagnan reached behind him and unsheathed Gaudet's main _gauche_ from his belt, and gripped in it his left hand. The pair sat in silence. And then, Gaudet's eyes opened, the blue that had haunted the Gascon, vanished as nothing but black pupils looked up at him. It gave a raspy moan and instantly started snapping its jaw at the meal on its chest. d'Artagnan stared at it with a twisted expression.

"I hope you rot in hell!" he raised both his hands above his head, each grasping tightly to a large parrying dagger. And with a loud cry that held every ounce of anger that had built up inside of him over this man, the black and red rage, he brought down his blades with whatever strength was left inside his exhausted body.

Aramis flinched as each dagger went into either of Gaudet's eyes. The zombie stilled instantly. d'Artagnan's arms jarred as the dagger tips clipped into the thick back skull bone, sticking. Breathing heavily, his arms shaking as he yanked the daggers from its eye sockets. He climbed to his feet, feeling utter exhaustion, and praying that after destroying the eyes that haunted his nights, he might be able to sleep once this was all over.

Aramis stood, and though he felt slightly dizzy, and his head still thumped, he went to the teen. He grasped d'Artagnan's shoulder, squeezing, and boy looked at him with tired eyes. He wasn't going to ask if the Gascon was alright. He knew he was sick of answering the question, same as him. "We can't stay here any longer, it's not safe."

d'Artagnan nodded in agreement. "But what about Athos and Porthos?"

He exhaled and grimaced. d'Artagnan watched the man as he contemplated their next move. The apartment was obviously compromised, who knew what might happen if the Red Guards didn't check in with Milady. They'd have to leave, and leave a message for Athos and Porthos, but—

The stairs creaked beyond the open doorway and there was the thump of two sets of boots. d'Artagnan spun and raised the two daggers in his hands in a high and low position. Aramis quickly scooped up his fallen sword and they faced against the dark doorway and whatever surprise approached from the darkened stair.

Athos and Porthos stood startled in the doorway at the scene before them.

"What happened?" Athos demanded, pushing Porthos into the room and quickly shutting the apartment door and throwing the latch.

"They're Red Guards," d'Artagnan finally lowered the daggers, and Aramis sheathed his sword in his belt on the chair. "They work for Milady."

Athos peered down at the man closest to him, his face up. His brows twitched as he noted the hollow orbs where his eyes used to be and the two daggers in d'Artagnan's hands. "This is Gaudet. He's Captain of the Red Guards."

"He's the man that killed my father." d'Artagnan said curtly. Athos looked at him for a long moment but said nothing, and instead, gave a small dip of the head. The Gascon returned a firm one.

Porthos went to Aramis and grasped his shoulder and peered closely at his brother, and the wound on his forehead. "What 'appened? Are you okay?"

"Mm." Aramis answered not committally, silently glad when Porthos pushed him back into the chair. "They got the drop on me." He confessed. "If it weren't for d'Artagnan, I would be dead."

"You did this?" Porthos gaped at the teen and the scene before them.

d'Artagnan nodded proudly, "My father taught me."

"'Ow did they get in here in the first place?" he asked.

Athos added, "The door isn't splintered..."

"We thought they were you." Aramis said.

"'Ow could you possibly think they were us?" Porthos gasped. "I definitely look better than that guy!" he pointed to Gaudet, giving a only a half-faux shiver.

"Not like that," Aramis rolled his eyes, and felt a little dizzy for it. "They knew our secret knock."

Athos sighed, going over to the side table and the old bottle of wine that sat there. He uncorked it, and swallowed the stale last dregs, grimacing at the stagnant taste even his taste buds weren't equipped for. "We knew this might happen," he abandoned the bottle and turned back to his friends. "At least one of you was prepared." He deadpanned. Aramis sputtered in protest, much to the other threes amusement. Athos sobered. "They must have been watching us, and when they saw you two arrive, they made their move to steal d'Artagnan, just as Milady said she would."

"So, what happens now?" d'Artagnan asked. He's finally set the long daggers down, and was pulling his boots back on. "We can't stay here any longer. We can't go back to the garrison..." He shook his head despairingly as he sat back tiredly on Athos' bed.

"There's a woman I know—" Athos said slowly after a long moment of thought.

"Oh?" Aramis raised a pointed brow, despite the situation.

The blue-eyed man shot his a glare. "She can be trusted. She'll give us shelter until we can figure out our next move."

"Sounds like a plan!" the Spaniard stood and clapped his hands, throwing on his boots, frock, belt, and cloak. He carefully laid his hat on his head, tilting the brim up above his wound.

"Douse the fire, pack up." Athos told d'Artagnan, before jerking his head at Porthos and Aramis to follow him. The trio descended the staircase, and lingered in the shadows of the ground floor landing.

Porthos leaned against the doorjamb of the door that led to the landlord's apartment. Unnoticed, his shoulder pushed open the unlatched door. "What do—!" he was surprised to suddenly be jumped by the landlord from the darkness of the apartment, the turned corpse intending to take a chunk out of him. Athos was quick to draw and put his sword through its ear.

"I guess that answers your question," he drawled to Aramis, spotting clear signs of a beating on the body.

Aramis had not seen anyone suspicious hanging round on the street, because the two men had taken a step sideways and broken into the landlord's apartment on the ground floor. Not even half an hour later, they had all the secrets that they might of the upstairs tenant. The landlord lay dead in the apartment below, unchecked, and changed into the zombie that now lay at their feet.

"Whoo!" Porthos shuddered. "Almost bit it there. Thanks,"

"This is getting out hand," Athos shook his head, resheathing his sword. Porthos tumbled the body back inside the doorway and shut it tight. "d'Artagnan won't ever be safe—none of us will—until Milady is put a stop to."

Despite the knock to the head, Aramis knew instantly what the other Musketeer was suggesting. He shook his head emphatically, reaching out a hand and gripping Porthos' shoulder as it made him a bit woozy. "We will go to this woman's place and come up with a plan from there after a good night's rest."

Athos carded his fingers through his brown hair tiredly. "She wants d'Artagnan, but we can't let that happen. You two will go with d'Artagnan, and get out of the city. And I will meet Milady like she said in her letter."

"You can't be serious!" Porthos protested. "She's insane! It's obviously a trap."

"It's not a trap if I know it's there."

"You may know it's there, but you don't know what it is!" Aramis snapped.

Athos' face was stone. "I know how she thinks. _I_ have the upper hand over _her_ , not the other way around. _Take_ d'Artagnan, leave the city. We'll meet at the ruins by tomorrow. Understand?" but he didn't wait for them to answer, and stepped from the landing and into the street, quickly disappearing into the distant dark.

Aramis and Porthos looked at each other gravely.

"What are we supposed to do?" Porthos asked.

Aramis sighed. "He _was_ right—d'Artagnan isn't safe in Paris. We need to get him out and to safety—the Cardinal can not get him." He shivered at the thought. If Richelieu knew, and got d'Artagnan's bite, what would he do with the boy afterward?

"We're really goin' to just let Athos confront the witch... alone?" Porthos shook his head.

"When have we ever listened to Athos' orders when he's being stupid and self-sacrificing?" Aramis smirked. "We get d'Artagnan somewhere safe, then we come back and generously tell Athos how dumb he's being."

The big man grinned. "Now that's a plan!"

* * *

d'Artagnan had done as instructed, and doused the fire in the fireplace with the remaining water from the jug on the table. It hissed and spit and smoked as it was smouldered. He wasn't stupid, he knew the three were probably having a secret discussion. And while it irked him, it couldn't be helped. He buckled Aramis' borrowed cloak around his shoulders, and was about to leave the apartment, but was pulled to a pause next to Guadet's body. He looked down at the eyeless zombie, his lips twisted with hate. After a moment, he crouched by its side.

d'Artagnan stole Gaudet's weapons belt, sword, main _gauche,_ and pistol—wondered if it was the same that had killed Alexandre, but decided to hold onto it anyways. He would use this to end the people that had ruined his life. He stepped from the apartment and closed the door.

d'Artagnan came down the stairs, and halted at the bottom with the pair. "Where's Athos?" he questioned.

"'E went back to the garrison to talk with Treville." Porthos lied easily enough.

"Oh." There was no reason not to believe them.

"We should go," Aramis said, grimacing. "Athos gave directions. We'll stick to the backstreets. It will take longer, but it give us better cover for the curfew."

Porthos took the lead, d'Artagnan followed, and Aramis took up the rear. They did not speak, moved quietly, ducked into hiding when they came across a Red Guards patrol.

"How do you know where you're going," d'Artagnan cringed his cloak caught on the edge of a precariously balanced stack of crates at the corner of the street, and he barely avoided tumbling the whole thing down. They turned into a darkened alley.

"Porthos knows the city like the back of his hand, day or night." Aramis whispered. "He knows all the best hiding places, all the best ways _out_ of the city—"

"Out of the city?" d'Artagnan repeated, and his eyes widened in the dimness. He stopped so suddenly that Aramis barely stopped from tripping into him and bowling them over.

"What's you stop?" Aramis grasped his shoulder in confusion.

Porthos finally noticed their absence and turned back. "What's the 'old up? Why'd you stop?"

"Me?" d'Artagnan asked angrily. "You're trying to get me out of the city!" his voice seemed loud in the quiet of the night, but he didn't care, he was pissed.

Porthos sighed and then gazed at him as if he were an idiot and it had to have been obvious, any pretence dropped. "That's the plan, pup. 'Aven't you been payin' attention?

d'Artagnan looked back and forth between the two men as if _they_ were the idiots. "Athos clearly said—" he suddenly cut himself off as the realisation finally hit. He clenched his fists and cursed. "You bastards! You two lied to me!"

"Would you 'ave listened otherwise?" he raised a brow.

"You were going to smuggle me out of the city—did you think I wouldn't realize?" he demanded.

"No," Aramis disagreed. "We were just hoping you wouldn't realize until it was too late."

"How could you do that?" the boy gasped.

"I swore to protect you, d'Artagnan. I won't let anyone hurt you again. _This_ is the best way to do that." Aramis said. "We all agreed. Milady and the Cardinal cannot get their hands on you." He grasped the boy's shoulders. "I'm getting you out of the city," and he turned him back towards Porthos.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan tore his shoulders free. "Why isn't he with us then?"

Aramis and Porthos shared a fast look in the dark alley, but d'Artagnan saw it anyways.

"He's meeting us." _That_ wasn't a lie, at least.

"Meeting us..." d'Artagnan again repeated, like he was tasting the words on his tongue to see if they rang true. And while they might have, there was still a sour taste that didn't sit well—where was Athos before he would meet them? The conclusion came to him an instant later as he finally put all the loose pieces together. "Yeah—he'll meet us after he goes after Milady!" their awkward and guilty expression were all the answer he needed. "All those secret talks!" He shook his head in distaste. "I _knew_ something stupid was up. How could you just leave him like that—and make _me_ too? He's our _friend_! Milady is insane—and has resources. He's going to get himself killed!"

"Oh, calm down." Porthos rolled his eyes as the steamed boy, though worry was etched in the dark orbs. "'E's the best swordsman in Paris. And 'e 'as your bite. 'E'll be fine."

"Even the best swordsmen die!" he exclaimed. "And my bite doesn't make him invulnerable!" he breathed heavily as his decision was made. "I'm going back for him. Do what you want!" he turned and pushed passed Aramis, and fled back the way they had come. He didn't know where he was, or where he was going, but he'd find Athos by pure willpower alone if he had to.

Aramis cursed. "We should have knocked him out when we had the chance!"

Porthos raised a brow at his brother before they settled back down in a firm line. "'E's right, you know. This was a stupid plan. We never should 'ave let Athos just walk away!"

"I know." Aramis sighed heavily and lifted his hat, running his fingers through his unruly hair, before settling it back in proper place. "I just wanted to keep d'Artagnan safe and Athos used that against me to get us to agree that his plan was otherwise."

Porthos clapped him on the shoulder. "We'd better get after the kid before 'e get's lost."

Aramis nodded and they made their chase back the way they had come, hopefully, d'Artagnan hadn't gotten too far in the dark streets.

* * *

In truth, d'Artagnan _didn't_ get very far. He didn't know where he was, where he was going, the shifts of the Red Guards. It didn't help that it was dark, and the only light came from the moon overhead and torches that only lay in intervals on the main streets. And with curfew-passed, there was even less reason to have the streets lit when the Guards could just carry torches themselves.

But he'd been too frantic, desperate, and fearful to realize...

He'd been about to step into the street, right into the laps of two Red Guards when hands grabbed him from behind. An arm around his chest, and a hand clamped over his mouth to silence his protests. He was dragged back into the darkness of the alley with the two men. But he quickly recognized the hands holding him still and silent. They were the hands that had treated him, cared for him, had saved his life. Despite how angry he was with both Aramis and Porthos, he instantly stilled. Several moment's passed before the Guards passed by the mouth and them, and vanished down the street.

Aramis finally released him and d'Artagnan straightened, turning to the two men with a stone expression. "So, you came to your senses, then?" he asked them, his eyes narrowed. "Because if you chased me down just to drag me away—"

Aramis shook his head. "No... you were right about Athos." The boy raised a brow. "But I still stand by my want to keep you safe, my promise."

"Thanks, but _I_ stand by saving Athos." He retorted but nodded. "So, are you going to tell me where they are?"

Porthos exhaled a heavy breath, "The Court of Miracles." And that should have been reason enough to not let the blue-eyed Musketeer go, let alone his insane wife.

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _Well, we seem about to be reaching the climax of this thing… I truly had no idea where I was going with this chapter, but hopefully it's a good lead-up to the next._

 _y_


	9. Chapter 8: (Whistle A Tune)

**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general zombie concerns.**

 **Note: So, another chapter aka more instanity.**

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):** wtf is happening? **LOL.**

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Life is Death is Dead**  
 _Chapter 8:_ —

Athos left his two brothers before they could either acknowledge or deny his order. It wasn't often that he pushed his higher rank in the Musketeers over them, but in situations like this, he wasn't regretful. If Athos knew Aramis at all, the Spaniard would be convincing Porthos that they would jaunt d'Artagnan to a safe place and then return in fast pace for Athos. He did not feel guilty whatsoever in using Aramis' boundless and soft heart to get him, d'Artagnan, and Porthos away and to safety.

This was something that he needed to do himself. A wrong in the world that was done because of his own soft heart; no matter how many times Aramis and Porthos tried to convince him otherwise.

His step had steel in it as he followed the main street until he could take one of the side streets, cut across the square, before soon coming to the very entrance to the Court that d'Artagnan had exited from on his night spent lost in the city.

There were two Red Guards coming down the street straight towards him, but Athos step didn't falter or slow. He pushed through right between them.

"Hey—" they spun, one reaching to grab him.

"Leave me be, unless you want a mouth full of dirt and broken teeth." Athos said. And his blue eyes cut across the two men so cold and harshly, that he stalled them in their boots—and then he was around the corner, gone from their sights. He grabbed the lit torch at the corner before he turned off.

When he finally made it to the arch that led to the Court, he allowed himself to pause and contemplate exactly how stupid and reckless he was being. But not for longer than necessary. Athos had never stepped foot in the Court of Miracles. Not before, when it was whole and a bustling metropolis of its own accord tucked inside Paris. And not after it was turned into a mass grave, the bones of the dead buried in naught but thick ash of their own flesh and homes.

The passage was clear, which should not be the case. As Porthos had said back in Aramis' room, the whole Court had been boarded up and blocked. This was obviously Milady's doing. But he thought it odd that it hadn't been reported and boarded back up. Did she truly have that much influence with the Red Guards?

He stepped through and instantly, the atmosphere was changed into something more clouded and haunting. The light of the flame shimmered against the black charred close walls of the pathway. His gaze was drawn downward as he slowly walked forward, the thick ash underfoot disturbed by more than just Milady's foot—dozens and dozens. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise beneath his scarf.

He pressed forward into the dark streets with his small globe of light. The place had a feeling of depression, desolation and terror to it. An atmosphere that had become familiar to him back at his home in Pinon after Thomas' death. His home, peace, and heart had been shattered that day. He'd been a coward and fled from it, fleeing, trying to leave his past behind. But unbeknownst to him, it had been awaiting him in Paris, even as he tried to salvage his salvation in Aramis, Porthos, and Treville.

He didn't know where Milady was, but he knew that she was _somewhere_ there. He came to a stop in the middle of the street, as in the distance father down, half hidden in the shadow, sat a lone chair in the middle of the street. His keen blue eyes quickly darted around the scenery as he placed his torch in the melted bracket on the charred brick wall of a store. The torchlight cast a glow inside the shutter-less window next to it. He could see the rounded-edge of a burnt ribcage, the flickering shadow of it a eerie after image. He turned from it and stepped back into the middle of the street and waited.

Athos ignored the itch between his shoulder blades. He didn't think that she would put a bullet through the back of his head, killing him before he even hit the ground. No. She would want to look him in the eyes first, rub it in his face, lash out. That was just who she was. She had tried to distantly kill him for some years now, in these elaborate schemes, covering her tracks—though he didn't rightly know just _how_ many—none that had ever worked out for her. She was desperate now, at the end of her rope with d'Artagnan's escape, enough so that she revealed herself when she was of the belief that Athos still thought her dead, and wore that like a protective shield.

They didn't make a sound. They lumbered out of the dark shadows with barely a scuff of the ground. If he hadn't been hitched on fighting-mode, he might had been dead.

He jumped back from the grasping hands, ragged nails catching his fluttering cloak, and bowled right into another zombie. They tumbled to the ground in a heap—the advantage was his. He quickly threw his cloak back and drew out his main _gauche_. He plunged it through the forehead of the biter in a stroke. He didn't have time to fully register the discoloured eyes before he rolled from the corpse, onto his back. He was a quick draw, and the crack of the fired shot was almost deafening in the quiet but for his own breathing. The looming zombie collapsed to the ground, the back of its skull take half off. He held the third and remaining zombie off with a foot planted at the walker's groin, almost as effective as a palm against the forehead of a charging child. He grunted as it continued to push and strain against him, swiping with outstretched arms. It was silent, contrary to the usual grunting and groaning that was typical of a zombie; the click of its snapping teeth was all the sound that it emitted.

With effort, he shoved the zombie stumbling backward with a kick and quickly got to his feet, yanking his dagger still embedded in his first kill's forehead. The zombie charged him immediately again, and he met it. With his free hand, he reached forward, grabbing a handful of long tangled hair and yanking back what used to be a woman's head, and drove his dagger up under its chin. The eater died silently, looking into Athos' eyes. It hung limply from his grasp on its hair and the knife thrust up its chin. His eyes narrowed as he looked at it; it wasn't like any zombie he was used to seeing.

Its skin was jaundiced, pulled taut against the skull. It was pale and looked waxy. In the limited light of the torch and the moonlight overhead, they had looked the phantoms—if he believed in such a thing. The flesh didn't seem to be in any state of decomposition. A usual characteristic of the turned, was a disappeared iris; the colour completely drained, leaving the eye completely white but of the black pupil. But he could see the faint ring of the woman's iris, a shadow of a tint of the brown that her eyes used to be.

Athos finally pulled his dagger free, ready to drop the dead, when his eyes were drawn to its neck. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but for the long diagonal cut mark at the center of its neck. It was a cut _purposefully_ made.

His heart beat in his chest as he finally dropped the zombie and spun on his heel, sheathing his dagger as he snatched up his pistol. Crouching, surrounded by three dead, irregular zombies, he quickly set about reloading his pistol.

He wondered if this was Milady's plan, to send zombies after him. But that didn't make any sense. It just seemed too outrageously dangerous to cart zombies to the Court just for him. So _what_ was her plan?

"I know you're out there!" he finally called, his voice even, "Hiding in the shadows." Silence met him for a beat, and then she giggled. The sound sent a involuntary chill down his spine. His eyes narrowed and scoured the shadows but he could detect no one.

"What do you think?" she purred. "Marvellous, aren't they?"

"It's impolite not to come and greet an invited guest," he answered coolly. "Did you learn nothing as a Comtesse... Anne?"

"Hm." She finally sauntered from the shadows, the same distance away as the single chair placed perfectly in the middle of the street. "Still hooked on that, I see."

Athos slowly rose, his blue-eyes locked on her. She was still one of the most beautiful women that he knew, and he hated it. He just wished that her outside beauty could have reflected that of her soul. Things could have been so different.

"You look pretty put together for a dead woman." He commented.

One hand grasped the back of the chair as she stood beside it, looking back at him. "No thanks to you." He stared back and said nothing. "Aren't you going to say anything else? Aren't you going to ask how I am still alive? I honestly hoped for more of a reaction, but considering its you we're talking about—that may be asking too much."

"Perhaps I was shaken years ago when I first caught a glimpse of you in Paris," Athos allowed himself to admit, and a fast look of surprise flew across her face in the shadows before she could cover it. "But it was such long ago I don't quite recall. Perhaps there was a small part of me that hoped you had managed to survive, a piece of love that survived after everything—"

"I knew you would come." She whispered, sliding into the seat delicately.

Athos squared his shoulders, he was getting distracted. "So, any other surprises I should look forward to?" he questioned, stepping over the body of the zombie in front of him and slowly walking forward.

"Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."

Athos stopped, still some distance between them, but far more intimate than before. Though the light from the torch was faint at this distance, he could still see her more clearly than before.

Milady sighed. "You never want to play. Down to business, I suppose." She cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders, her hands rested over one another on her crossed knees beneath her skirts, and her red lips curved. "Where is d'Artagnan? He's special, as I'm sure you are aware. I want him back."

"He's a person, not a _thing._ " Athos repeated Aramis' words to her. "He doesn't belong to anyone." _Unlike you,_ he didn't add.

"Ah." She said in realization. "You've grown found of the boy, haven't you?" she laughed. "That is so... sweet, and so... sad."

"Haven't you figured it out already?" he replied in a cold condescending tone. "There is no cure."

"Mm." A smile curved the corner of red lips. "Whether there is a cure or not, I've grown quite fond of the boy, too." Even at this distance, she could detect the subtle tensing of his body in response to her words. "Jealous?"

"Disappointed." He corrected her and her lips flat-lined. Without even realizing it, she'd just revealed that she in fact did _not_ know that d'Artagnan's bite was a cure. "Have you truly fallen so low, Anne? Seducing young boys... I believed you to be better than that. What happened to the woman that I married—"

"You never knew me! Don't claim to have!" she hissed at him, standing. "You are a heartless man. I've never known someone more selfish or self-centered."

"You murdered Thomas," he said soundlessly. "I should not have allowed you to go free, I should have—"

" _Allowed_ me to be _free?"_ she scoffed. "I am a person, not a thing!" she threw back into his face.

"The Cardinal _owns_ you, Anne." He shook his head. "You're kidding yourself with this notion of revenge. Just give it up, turn yourself in—or _leave._ Leave Paris and go somewhere far away where he can never find you—while you have the chance, the _freedom._ "

"My freedom vanished the second I met you." Her green eyes shone bright with unshed tears. She slowly walked towards him, he stood unmoving. "You stole my heart, Athos." She reached him, looking up at him as he stared stoically back. She placed her palms flat on his chest. "Everything inside of me, everything I did from the day I fell into your beautiful, cold blue eyes—was out of love." She stood on her toes. "Everything we ha—"

"You destroyed anything that was between us when you murdered my brother."

Her expression turned hard in an instant and she stepped back from him. "Was your friend's funeral as fun as it looked?" she mocked him lowly. "I guess that half those men that attended only did so out of Treville's orders."

Athos inhaled sharply at her jab. "You know nothing of what it means to love," he told her. "You were just using me. That wasn't love. You tricked me into believing you were something that you aren't!"

She sneered at him and turned her back purposefully, walking back to her placed chair. It was a prop to her, a viewing seat.

Was the show his death?

He should kill her now, he should—but he couldn't seem to will himself to do it, despite that being his whole reason for coming. Finally kill Milady; keeping d'Artagnan safe and perhaps, sealing the gaping wound of his past. "You're nothing but Richelieu's lapdog," he found himself saying instead. "What exactly do you hope to accomplish here?"

"To kill you!" she hissed, turning back to him and sitting in the chair. "...And test out the Cardinal's army." She added.

"Army?"

She smiled with a small chuckle. "You shouldn't have come alone, Athos."

"He's not alone!" the pair were both startled by the shout, and looked behind Athos to see d'Artagnan charging towards him.

Athos cursed both Aramis and Porthos. How did they let him get here? Why weren't they at the ruins like was agreed? If they were standing in front of him as well, he would throttle them. He kind of wanted to throttle the boy right then too to get his point across.

"Well," Milady said after a moment, "That saves me the time and fun of dragging the answer of his whereabouts out of you."

d'Artagnan halted beside him a bit breathless and fired up. Athos stared at him with a hard look. He seemed to be alone, but he surely hoped that wasn't the case. The teen shot him a glance and a short nod in assurance. So Porthos and Aramis _were_ around, but out of sight and getting into position. That was something, at least.

d'Artagnan glared at her. "You won't be seeing your henchmen again, if you were curious. They fell to my blade rather quickly."

"Clearly, they outlived their usefulness." She just flicked her fingers casually in response. "I knew there was a reason I liked you, d'Artagnan."

"And I knew there was a reason I _didn't_ like you." He shook his head. "You are an evil woman. And you will pay for the harm you've done to innocent people."

She gave a light chuckle. "Innocent—how boring. But they have their uses. As I was telling Athos a few minutes ago before you so helpfully turned yourself into me—would you like to say hello to those innocent's?"

d'Artagnan furrowed his brow in confusion and Athos tensed next to him.

"If you do this, Anne," Athos said. "You cannot take it back."

"The only regret I'll have tonight, Athos, is if you live." She dragged up the silver chain from around her neck, and from her bosom drew up a silver whistle. She put it to her red lips and blew.

Athos waited, but there was no piercing signal—there was no sound at all.

"Aah!" d'Artagnan cried out at the sudden sharpness stabbing through his brain.

"d'Artagnan!" Athos called in alarm, grasping the boy's shoulder as he straightened. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"What was that?" he gasped. "Didn't you feel that?"

"No." Athos shook his head. He looked back to Milady and growled, "What was that?"

"A call to arms."

"Ar—" Athos' sharp gaze darted around the darkness of the street, the only light from the overhanging moon as his torch from down the street near the corpses of the three zombie, suddenly fizzled out. He couldn't be sure that that was planned on her part or just a coincidence, but decided that at the moment, it didn't really matter.

He drew his sword, releasing the boy as he faced the shadows. d'Artagnan straightened and drew his stolen sword from the same taken belt and turned his back to Athos, facing the other side. He didn't know what that whistle was, or exactly what that pain that only he seemed to feel was, but what he did know, what that it was trouble.

"Athos?" he asked.

"The Cardinal's been amassing a zombie army, apparently." He said.

"What?" d'Artagnan exclaimed. "How is that even possible? You can't control zombies."

"I don't know." He admitted. "We'll see in a minute. But the zombies I fought earlier," he looked over to the trio, "they weren't regular."

d'Artagnan looked at them too, almost noticing them for the first time. In honesty, when he ran in here, he wasn't really thinking about it, and he certainly didn't put any attention to the three bodies on the ground, not when Athos and Milady were right there. He was sure he'd hear about that later from the others—if they got out of this situation that was all because of him.

Any question that he might of had about these zombies not being 'regular' was put on hold as they suddenly seemed to swarm towards them from every shadowed room on the street. d'Artagnan was honestly surprised when they weren't there, and then suddenly they were, with no warning whatsoever.

The blood in his body crawled at the presence of them. It wasn't as if there was anything outwardly disgusting or evil about them, in fact, they were the best preserved zombies he had ever come across.

His sword moved fast and furious, slashing left and right, stabbing. Athos' movements were similar behind him. They moved differently. They didn't seemed to be jolting and halting, lumbering. They seemed a little faster, and a little more coordinated than regular zombies. Was that what Athos meant?

"Amazing creatures, aren't they? Fascinating," Milady said, greatly enjoying the show, but it didn't appear to be enough. Though she had the numbers, she knew it would take more than that to take her husband down once and for all. "And it's all thanks to you, d'Artagnan." She brought the whistle back to her red lips, and this time, instead of a single long note, she blew several short notes.

Again, Athos heard nothing. But each breath was a harsh pain inside d'Artagnan's brain that had his step faltering. The hybrid zombies reacted to it as well, and as one, they seemed to open their mouths it a silent cry that was linked to the Gascon's verbalisation. The entire thing put chills through the blue-eyed Musketeer. The speed of their movements, the fluidness of their attacks, they moved cohesively, like a unit based on command, rather than mindless beasts that the zombies usually were.

It seemed about then, that d'Artagnan realized something chilling of his own. For those several moments, as the whistle caught him unawares, he should have been completely overwhelmed by the zombies—but they hadn't. They seemed to want to amble over or through him—

"d'Artagnan." Athos barked.

—at Athos. "M'fine." d'Artagnan straightened and attacked the zombies with a renewed vigour. One hand his sword, another with the same main _gauche_ he had used to kill Gaudet, his attacks doubly as fluid. And it hit him like a bucket of frozen blood as a zombie hurled towards him, knocking him into another as the tried to get at Athos. It was like they didn't even see him as he was right under its nose. He got an eye full of the incision on its neck as it was trying to crawl over him (and now knew why the didn't make a sound), saw the flash of colour that lingered in its eyes, its pulsing tongue. With a grunt of effort, he managed to roll them, having lost his sword in the tackle, he stabbed it through the ear to the brain with his dagger as it craned its head back towards Athos even then. He quickly leapt onto the back of the zombie that he and the other had dropped onto, its hands and knees giving out beneath the boy's sudden weight. He put his dagger through the back of its head.

He spun around and grabbed up his fallen sword again, leaping to his feet and back into the fight. Athos didn't seemed to have noticed what he had.

The reason why it felt like there were bugs crawling under his skin, why the whistle seemed to cut through him, why they weren't attacking _him._ Milady claimed that these zombies were because of him—because he was a part of them. All that blood that Lemay had cut from him, day after day as he was chained in that cell that he didn't think he had a hope of escaping from—was used on these people. Of course, it was the obvious path to go, to believe that the blood that flowed through his body held the cure to the disease. But as discovered, it was his _bite_ —but these... _things_ , theses odd zombies, were the result of his transfused blood into another person.

His blood was _poison_.

He shuddered at the thought. These creatures did not attack him because they had his blood. Just like how regular zombies didn't attack other zombies around them. These zombies didn't attack him because they recognized him as one of their **own.** He was nearly taken with the horror of it.

"No," he moaned quietly, too quietly for Athos to hear, despite how close they were, through the sound of their heavy breaths, the crunching of their blade cutting through bone and into brains, of the bodies hitting the ground.

"Need some 'elp?" Porthos asked, charging into the fray to join them, bowling several zombies over with a thick shoulder.

Athos acknowledge him with a nod, pulling his sword free from a zombie's chomping teeth, and elbowing the one looming behind him in the face, before turning on his heel and lopping its head off. "Where is—"

"Just going to thank the witch for the condolences on 'is death." Porthos flipped the zombie over a shoulder and put a hard stomp on its skull, crushing it beneath his boot. "What say we finish 'ere and join him in the sentiments felt?"

"He's just as bad as Athos!" d'Artagnan interjected.

Porthos paused a moment to send the boy a droll raised brow. "You're one to talk."

d'Artagnan glared at him, before his attention was distracted after being bumped _aside_ as the zombies now swarmed after two targets in stead of one. But lucky, between the three of them, the numbers of the hybrids were quickly dwindling.

* * *

Milady wasn't stupid. It was clear to her that she had once again let her obsession rule her plan. She should have killed him when she had the chance, when it had been just the two of them like she had written in her letter. She _knew_ he would come. And he had. And then, so had d'Artagnan. Everything she wanted was in front of her.

Another man suddenly jumping into the fray changed the outcome fast and drastically. One lucky move on her hybrid-zombies' part, and her husband would finally be dead at her hand after all these years. But it was as if God hated her, had put a curse upon her life since she was born into it.

But for a short while, she'd seen the light. She'd left the Cardinal, she found Athos. But soon, all too soon, she had been forced to kill Thomas. She gotten away with it for a short time, but then Athos found the truth, and had tossed her away. She had no other choice by to come crawling back to Richelieu and _beg_ to be back into his good-graces. She had never felt so disgusted with herself in her life in that moment, it didn't seem worth it. And here they were now.

She stood, sent one last mixed look towards her husband, and fled the opposite way down the street. What she didn't noticed was the _fourth_ man, flitting through the dark cast shadows after her.

She knew that Richelieu would not welcome her with open arms, perhaps once he found out how badly she had failed—exposing both of them and his plans in the process—he'd greet her with ordered steel through her back. She should have taken Athos up on his offer to run, but she was far to despising for that.

"And where do you think you're going?" Aramis questioned. He grabbed her and she instantly struggled, but the Spaniard had the upper hand and he shoved her back against a burnt beam pinning her in place. She seethed at the Musketeer.

"Who—" It took Milady a moment to recognize Aramis. Her eyes widened and she gasped, fearful and confused. "Ho—?" and then the realisation took her breath away. "You... you found a cure. How? What is it?" she leaned forward eagerly.

His brows just pulled together though. "What are you talking about?"

She narrowed her eyes and relaxed back against post, her red lips pursed. Handsome as he may be, and turn into more as the years passed, she wasn't buying it. She knew this was him, Athos' dead friend. She'd seen him around the man enough times over the years. It was rumoured that he'd been bitten, and a short few days later, they held his funeral. She scoffed as the realization hit her, but she said nothing further. It had been a ruse, a trick—but which part was the trick?

She spotted the bandage that wrapped his left wrist, peaking from beneath his cuff. Was that it? Was that the bite mark? Her green gaze flickered back to his face, he looked tired and a bit pale, and that mark on his forehead must smart a bit. A smiled flickered at the corner of her red lips, and without warning, she butted her head forward, smashing it into that pretty lump and bruise.

He stumbled backwards from her, tripping over his own feet in the harsh stab of pain, and crashed to the ground. The sudden mind-blasting pain that shot through his head and straight through his center. He was left stunned, his vision whited-out and his brain plummeted.

She took her moment, and grabbed his wrist. It was a risk, but she **needed** to know. She tore the bandage from his wrist and inspected it. And right there, gleaming in the overhead moonlight, she saw the clears marks of a bite wound well on its way of healing. Glee took her. She rose from the Musketeer, a grin curving her lips. There was a cure! Oh. Now that she knew the truth of it, whatever it was, and the Cardinal didn't… There was almost a skip in her step as she started to make her way down the street and from the fallen Spaniard.

Aramis bottomed out—and then the world kicked back into focus. He rolled up on his side with a grunt, and pulled the hook free of his belt, his arm steady as he directed it towards the retreating back.

The cocking of his pistol had her halting in her steps.

"Move, and I'll shoot."

"If you were going to shoot, you would have already done it." She replied calmly, and was judging whether she should risking taking that bold step forward when the Spaniard spoke:

"True as that may be, we'll be wanting answers from you. It will be Athos' decision what happens with you. But you should as well know... I'm the best shot in Paris. So go ahead, _take_ that step you're thinking about, _Madame_ , but do not curse me for what happens next."

After a moment, Milady did move, but it was to turn slowly on her heel to face the young Musketeer. "Tell me, Musketeer... what was it like to die?" she remembered watching d'Artagnan back in the ruins, watched as he stopped breathing and died for a moment, and wondered if it was the same for this man, though the remark was cutting.

"It's great fun," he said tersely. "You should try it some time."

"Yes, please!" she smiled and silently cheered. "Just hand d'Artagnan over—"

"Not in a million years," Aramis cut her off coldly. "You will never lay another hand on him, so long as I breath _and_ after."

Milady narrowed her green eyes. "That 'after' part appeals to me. Lower the pistol and we'll give it a try."

"Trust me, it's the pistol keeping _you_ safe, not the other way around." His voice was low and deathly and the expression in his brown eyes caused the assassin to pause.

 _Would he truly_? she thought. "Well, then..." she wondered, "What now?"

"Now, you tell us everything we want to know." Athos answered, coming to stand next to Aramis with the others.

Milady laughed at that. "And why would I possibly do that?"

"'Cause we asked nicely?" Porthos took a stab.

"Try again."

"'Cause you don't wan to feel what 'appen's next if you don't."

"And who do you believe I am more afraid of, hm?" Milady asked. "Three lowly Musketeers and a boy, or the First Minister of France who doesn't have a heart in his chest? Please, I'd like to hear your thoughts." She rolled her eyes sarcastically.

"Rethink your position, Anne." Athos told her genuinely. "Who stands before you? Who has your fait in their hands? Do we look the desperate men to you?" he stared at her levelly. "I was in a despaired state when last we met... I won't make that same mistake again."

Milady swallowed quietly from where she stood, a light distance between them. She carefully crossed her arms over her bosom. By all rights, they had her, it was true. But what they didn't know, was that she still had a play up her sleeve.

Her move was blink-fast before they could react. And her whistle was between her red lips, the slim silver tube laying parallel against her lips as she blew. Porthos yanked the chain off from around her neck with such force that it snapped and left a thin, red welt mark on her pale milky neck. But it was too late—she grimaced at the sting, but was satisfied.

d'Artagnan gave a low groan at the swimming inside his head. He pushed his fingers from one hand into his hair, palming the side of his skull almost like he could stabilize it. This silent sound had a different piercing affect than the others.

"d'Artagnan!" Aramis exclaimed in concern, turning his focus to the boy. He grasped his shoulder in worry. Unlike Athos and d'Artagnan who knew, or Porthos who had caught a glimpse of the woman using it before the zombies' frenzy was renewed, Aramis had taken longer to get into his position than Porthos after d'Artagnan had dashed off into the darkened archway of the Court. It was a miracle that both men had arrived in time.

"What did you do?" Athos demanded of his wife, and grabbed her upper arm roughly as Porthos seethed next to him, the whistle fisted in his large palm.

Milady just smirked and shrugged. "I told you I didn't want to ruin the surprise." Her expression levelled out, "Let me go, Athos—before it's too late."

Athos ignored her, his grip on her arm a bruising force as he looked around like the others into the shadowed and dark street warily. "That's not going to happen."

"Just wait and watch," she muttered.

He sent her a glare but addressed his men, "Porthos—Aramis: get some light in this place. There's a torch back down the street on the left. It'll be easily to spot—just look by the walkers."

Porthos snorted at that but nodded and handed the whistle and snapped chain over to the Musketeer Lieutenant. Aramis reluctantly released d'Artagnan, who seemed to have collected himself back up, before Porthos guided him away back down the street from where they had come, where you couldn't step and not find it on a corpse, with a hand on the back of his shoulder.

"I don't think 'e could 'ave been more specific that that." The big man deadpanned.

d'Artagnan slowly started to move in a circle around the man and woman, his eyes trained outward into the darkness, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The quiet was more nerve-wracking than if another hoard bore down on them for a second time that night.

"Nothing is happening, Athos." he addressed the man and attempted to ignore the woman. "Maybe it didn't work, or she's just screwing with us!" he sighed in frustration and carded his fingers through his unevenly cut locks. "This whistle was different from the others, it—" he made a wishy-washy gesture with his hand or perhaps a boat on crashing waves.

Athos turned to him at that. "What do you mean: different?"

"I—I don't know." He shook his head. "It didn't have the same affect as the others."

Athos looked down at the innocent looking, small, silver tube in the palm of his free hand before he clenched it and stuffed it in the pouch on his belt. "Perhaps, because Porthos cut it off—"

He stopped when his words were tripped over by Milady's low and amused chuckle at listening to them. If only they knew! "You sweet fools, the both of you."

d'Artagnan grimaced with twisted lips and turned his back on the woman, stepping away in the opposite direction.

The fear and anger that he held for the woman since his awakening in the cell, had mutated and changed into something even more conflicting and confusing ever since he'd found out that Milady was Athos' wife. No matter what the woman had done to him, that she had brought his world down into ruins—he could not kill her like he had Gaudet. Whatever Milady's fait, it was ultimately Athos' decision. She was his wife, he knew her longer than any of them, she had murdered his brother and for years had been attempting to kill him as well. d'Artagnan just hoped that whatever the outcome, it put her far away from him and left him to the life that Alexandre had hoped by bringing him to Paris.

He tried to ignore her, but she wasn't making it easy. He put some distance between him and the pair. Athos' blue glare at her spoke volumes. d'Artagnan really wanted to be from this place…

Without realizing it, his thoughts carried him further from the husband and wife, and out of Athos' unrealized sight. Milady watched him go from the corner of eye and turned head, with a smirk that she smothered as she faced Athos.

d'Artagnan remembered the bearing and oppressive influence of the Court when he'd fled into the place for an altogether different reason than he had raced into it tonight. He was starting to feel it again, now, like a physical presence as he stood alone at the end of the street that turned into a small three-way court cast into complete shadow.

He felt the weight of it on his chest again, pressing down, heavy as it pushed upon his mind.

The shadows wavered like a live thing and he shook his head and rubbed his eyes. His anxiety was just playing tricks on him. With one last look into the dark court, he lifted his heel, intent on turning a heading back to the others before his absence was noticed and he got yelled at for it later—when there was the crunch of charred bone underfoot. He froze, his own foot still raised. There was a scuff again, but he hadn't moved.

His breath exhaled shallowly and he carefully returned his foot to the ground. He eyes narrowed as he tried to peel back the layers of shadow in the square, his grip tight on the hilt of his sword.

A cloud filtered over the moon then, and whatever light it had cast, vanished, leaving him in near completely darkness…

A slick fear took over him and he didn't know why. He was frozen in the darkness, his breath stuck in his throat. Before finally, the cloud slithered passed over the moon, and the dim silver light took the inkiness away.

And from the darkness,

like a demon—

Lemay appeared.

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _I couldn't resist the: ("You shouldn't have come alone,"_ _—"He's not alone!") bit once it presented itself. The whistle—well, I was having a troubling time trying to come up with a way that Milady was supposed to 'control' the hybrid-zombies [between verbal commands, lip-whistles, etc...] and suddenly, the dog-whistle just hit me, because they are supposed to be 'commendable like dogs'. ;) So, as you know the Cardinal found out about the cure upon having that Red Guard autopsied, but obviously didn't share that little tidbit with Milady, who believed that their goal now is to harvest d'Artagnan's blood and make more hybrid-zombies for his army. She discovers on her own that there_ _ **is**_ _a cure, but not_ _ **what**_ _the cure is—and starts to make plans of her own._

 _I dreaded doing this chapter for the sole reason of the Athos-Milady confrontation, but after some heel-dragging it turned into some more insanity. Yay!_

y


	10. Chapter 9: (God had nothing to do w it)

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general zombie concerns.**

 **Note: Thank you so much for the fantastic reviews on the last chapter, I'm so happy that the Milady-Athos encounter didn't disappoint. I just hope no one tries to come through the computer screen and punch me for what I'm about to do...**

 **Is there something more insane than insanity? because this is it!**

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Life is Death is Dead**  
 _Chapter 9:_ —

He wanted to run, but the ashes underfoot cemented his feet in place. He wanted to flee, but it was as if the boned-hands of the dead beneath his feet rose up from the dark ash and grasped his ankles. Oh, how he wanted to scream, but the black pits of the physician's eyes stole his voice.

Lemay's arms outstretched as he drew closer, and it wasn't until a soft rasp left his open mouth that d'Artagnan's feet were released. But his knees were liquid, and he fell back on the ground, his sword caught up underneath him. Lemay appeared like a curious animal. His eyes wide and unblinking, his mouth agape, arms outstretched. He approached, his head cocking this way and that, his eyes locked on d'Artagnan.

The boy whimpered as the zombie dropped down to his level and crowded over top of him. Lemay was different, he wasn't like the other hybrid-zombies who had ignored him. Lemay was _seeing_ him. The zombie seemed to scent his way of up the Gascon, sniffing him out. d'Artagnan's breath stuttered to a halt in his throat as he came face-to-face with the physician. His face was mostly cast in shadow due to their positions, but d'Artagnan could see the crescent of his dark irises.

A high pitched sound left the back of d'Artagnan's throat as Lemay thunked their foreheads together, their noses smushed. The scream inside his head was slowly building as he stared into the unblinking eyes of the monster. He smelt like non-existence. d'Artagnan's hot and heavy breaths reflected back against his lips and Lemay rasped at him, his teeth clicking.

d'Artagnan jaw worked for a moment until he was finally able to get out: "P-p... please...!" he cried out. He squeezed his eyes shut, he just wanted this nightmare to end! Where were the others? Why hadn't they noticed him gone yet!

He grimaced as Lemay ground their foreheads together, pushing his head roughly. He forced his eyes open, his body still locked in fear. Lemay seemed to stop his ministrations now that the boy's attention was on him again.

 _Why?_ he sobbed.

Lemay grunted, his jaw clicking as his mouth worked. They sounded odd, rough and guttural, almost like—

 _What_ —

d'Artagnan's breath stopped, but he felt hot air brush his face anyway. His eyes widened. It couldn't be true! He was delusional, he was—

It didn't matter that it was Lemay that had informed the Inseparables of his presence and the Cardinal's goings-on. In the time up until that point, the man had happily tortured and experimented with him and others. d'Artagnan wanted him to die, not to live. He'd felt relief when they had come to the conclusion in Aramis' room that the physician was dead after reading Milady's letter. He was free.

Slowly, all the monsters in his life were disappearing and he was becoming freer...

But Lemay kept plaguing him, badgering him, bullying him. The pressure was too much, the fear in his belly too tight. He couldn't do it, couldn't take it.

He opened his mouth and screamed,  
lunging forward—

* * *

"You could 'ave just said by the one without its 'ead—might 'ave been a bit more 'elpful." Porthos commented dryly to the blue-eyed Musketeer as he and Aramis returned with the relit torch in hand.

The corner of Athos' lips twitched in response as he looked over his shoulder at them.

Aramis instantly straightened as he noted the absence. "Where's d'Artagnan?"

"He's—" Athos turned to look back over Milady's shoulder—but he wasn't. "d'Artagnan?" he called and received no answer.

"Where is he, Athos?" the Spaniard growled roughly.

"He was just there a minute ago!" he cursed at himself. "d'Artagnan!"

Only his voice echoed back through the empty street.

Milady chuckled. "Is your herd of little sheep dwindling? Perhaps there's a wolf in the field."

"Who did you signal?" Athos demanded.

"Tell us!" Aramis shouted when the woman didn't immediately answer.

" _Now_ you are the desperate men."

Porthos made a very dangerous sound in the back of his throat as he stepped forward. Milady's eyes bulged as his free hand wrapped around her delicate throat, his large palm enveloping the thin shaft. She instantly scrambled at his wrist, but to no avail.

" _Who_ did you signal?" He repeated the question. He squeezed. "Who?"

She choked. The others man no move to stop the big man. Desperate indeed.

"The wolf!" she rasped. "His nightmare."

"Explain!" Athos barked.

"Lemay—"

"Lemay?" Aramis stepped forward in confusion and concern. "He's still alive?"

Milady shook her as much as she was able in the large man's monstrous hand. "No. He's turned—"

The scream was like a tormented howl that stabbed through the three men's' hearts, and instantly moved them forward. Milady was wide-eyed and reluctant to follow, and Porthos had half a mind to just leave her behind, but then everything up until that point would have been pointless—so he dragged her along, practically throwing the struggling woman over his shoulder. In retrospect, he should have knocked her out, but finding d'Artagnan was the priority right now.

Athos took the torch, and became the light of the head as they rushed down the street towards the terror. He and Aramis had their swords free and Porthos gripped his drawn pistol, the other wrapped around Milady's waist.

The three men skidded to a halt as they came to the three-way court and saw the two figures upon the ground. The warm glow enveloped the pair, stretching out their shadows behind them across the dark ash. The bigger of the two was sprawled out onto his side facing them, his bloodied face clear in the torch flame—Lemay—unmoving. Beside him, his back facing them, was d'Artagnan. He was slumped forward on his folded knees, his head hanging.

"d'Artagnan?" Athos whispered, taking a step forward with a torch. "Are you alright? d'Artagnan!"

The boy inhaled with a crackling breath and they tensed. It sounded like the groan of a zombie. Slowly, his head raised and he slowly turned his head towards them. His eyes flared inhumanly in the torchlight for a moment, and Porthos actually let Milady slip from his grasp at the torment the image brought him. But it was gone a instant later, just the trick of the light. d'Artagnan's eyes still dark and brown and crisp, but there was a listlessness to them that Porthos remembered seeing back in the cell. He had mind enough to stomp his foot into Milady skirts and prevent the peeved woman's escape if she so wished. Milady was in middle curse herself at such treatment when the sight of the focus, d'Artagnan, finally landed on in her sights as she righted herself.

"d'Artagnan!" Aramis cried out in alarm, jolting from his frozen state, and shoved passed Athos. He skidded to his knees beside the boy, his handsome face lined with concern. d'Artagnan made no reaction as Aramis all but ignored Lemay, and put a crooked finger in the boy's chin and brushing the other hand over his uneven dark locks, inspecting him. There didn't seem to be any wounds, outward at least, but as he tilted the Gascon's chin up into the light of Athos' torch, his heart plummeted—covering the boy's chin and lips was dark blood.

"Is he alright?" Athos demanded impatiently in worry.

Aramis shook his head. "He appears uninjured, but..." he reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief.

"But what?" Porthos insisted when he didn't continue and started to wipe the blood from the teen's chin.

Aramis instead looked into the blank eyes that stared at him without emotion or recognition. "Oh, d'Artagnan!" he gasped and pulled the boy close in embrace. d'Artagnan put up no resistance and allowed himself to held against the warmth after the cold... cold...

"Aramis!" Athos shouted.

Aramis turned to look at him and the look in the Spaniard's gaze made the blue-eyed Musketeer swallow the swell of despair. "It appears that he... _bit_ Lemay." He said emphatically and at the physician's name, he felt a shiver tremor through the boy's frame against him. None of them seemed to connect the dots of the moment together just yet.

Milady made a sound of mild disgust at that, but Porthos silenced her with a hard glare, as Athos looked between the zombie and Gascon with a calculating and concerned look.

"d'Artagnan?" Aramis murmured against the boy's hair. "Are you with us? d'Artagnan?" he rubbed d'Artagnan's back in soothing circles. "You're safe now." His words reminiscent of back in Athos' apartment before Gaudet burst in.

d'Artagnan pressed his forehead against Aramis' chest, similar to what Lemay had done to him, feeling the beating heart. If he could just push hard enough, he could disappear inside of Aramis and be safe forever like the Spaniard promised him. But it was just a fantasy; that would not be his fait, his was something more darker and harder than that. He couldn't fall apart, not now. This wasn't just about him anymore—the Cardinal was trying to muster a zombie-army created of his own Gascon blood, and accomplish what? That was the answer they needed, that was the answer that _she_ would provide them.

With a mighty shuddering breath, d'Artagnan pulled himself together and pushed back from Aramis' warm embrace.

"d'Artagnan?" Aramis whispered, hands a steady pressure on his shoulders, grounding as the man's touch always seemed to be.

d'Artagnan took one more deep breath for allowance before he spoke, "I'm alright." And his voice steady.

Aramis gave a nod in allowance and helped the boy stand.

"What happened?" Athos asked softly after a moment, as the boy's gaze was stuck to the dead zombie.

It was a moment before d'Artagnan answered, and he shifted away from the body. A coward, he put Aramis between them, blocking it from view, but he knew it was there just the same.

"I didn't realize how far I had wandered..." he said quietly. "And then he just came out of the darkness. He wasn't like the others. He—he came straight at me... he looked right at me."

"You're not making any sense, d'Artagnan." Athos interrupted him gently.

"The other zombies didn't attack me, they didn't even see me. They just wanted you and Porthos."

"I didn't notice that." Porthos muttered.

"That doesn't make sense," Aramis agreed.

"You said so yourself, Athos." d'Artagnan gestured, "These aren't normal zombies. They-they're hybrids... They have my blood—isn't that right, Milady?" he turned his gaze to her and so did everyone else's.

Milady gave a small shift uncomfortably under their combined gazes of malice, before she straightened, stuck out her chin, and her deep red lips quirked in a smirk. "Told you, you were special."

"It's poison!" he spat at her. "You injected them with my blood and turned them into monsters."

"Not quite," she disagreed companionably, "but your blood was a big part of their transformation. You are sp—" ( **ecial beyond even your own recognition).**

"Shut up!" he shouted. She did, for now, but her waiting smirk was the most prominent thing about her. He turned his head away from her, anger burning in his brown gaze.

"Go on," Aramis encouraged.

"He was acting different than the others. They ignored me completely, like I wasn't there, like I was one of _them_." He shivered at the returned and shared fact. "He came straight for him. I was on the ground and he just came over top me... and pressed his forehead against mine. His mouth was moving, but not like he wanted to take a bite out of me, but like he was trying to **say** something." He paused in the silence and looked around the others at their contorted stares. "I'm telling you—!" he sighed in frustration and ploughed ahead, "I know how it sounds—but he was on top of me and kept making these weird sounds and was grinding my head into the ground—instead of trying to _eat_ me. And suddenly, I just snapped and I bit him. I didn't know what else to do, I—"

" _Bit,"_ Athos repeated, hard. "But not kill."

d'Artagnan nodded and the realization that had been staring them in the face from their feet up, hit them like a tone of bricks. Lemay lay there, unmoving. Regularly, a bite wound that d'Artagnan had given him, would make any zombie just get back up and keep on trying until something was put through to its brain. But then again, nothing was regular about d'Artagnan and that could definitely be said about his bite.

Athos didn't think that the kid just went around biting zombies during his free hour. But as was established, these zombies were different because they were infused with his blood. So, had d'Artagnan's bite...? —but it wasn't as if they had anything to compare it with, unless one counted the Red Guard that the boy had killed in the cell. But that Guard was human when he died, when Lemay definitely was not.

Torch still in hand, holding it aloft, Athos knelt down beside the physician. He reached out and pulled the zombie's shoulder, laying him flat. He made no noise of life or move of awareness. He leaned forward and in the firelight, examined him closely. It took him a moment to find d'Artagnan's bite among Lemay's already trashed and tortured flesh—done unto him none other than Milady herself, Athos was sure. The bite's location was not a deadly one. He shot to his feet as he saw the physician's chest rise and fall.

"What is it?" d'Artagnan demanded.

"He's... breathing."

"That can't be possible," Aramis shook his head in denial. "He was changed, a zombie— **dead**."

d'Artagnan shifted around Aramis and looked down at the man. "He's alive?" he whispered. After everything, the man still haunted him.

"'E was turned by the bite, not 'cause he died, right?" Porthos slowly hypothesized. "Isn't that different?"

d'Artagnan dropped to his knees at Lemay's head and withdrew the main _gauche_ from his belt that had done Gaudet in as well.

"d'Artagnan, what are you doing?" Athos exclaimed, "You can't kill him!"

"Why not? What does it matter?" he asked, his gaze not leaving the unconscious man under his blade. "By the end of this, he'll just get hung anyway. Why can't I do it, get something out of it?"

Athos' tone was reasonable and calm, though there was nothing of those two about their situation. "We don't do that, dispense justice—"

"Justice?" he scoffed. "You may not, but _I'm_ not a Musketeer, am I?" he turned back to the physician. "He's just getting what he would have if I had been able to draw my sword. He was a monster in human form, he deserves to die. It doesn't matter that he fed you information. It doesn't matter that he got you to save me from his own hands—"

"d'Artagnan," Athos murmured quietly. "I understand that you want revenge, trust me, I do. But this is not the way, this—"

"So I'm just supposed to do nothing?" he shouted at the older man, anger heating his eyes. "Like _you_ did nothing? And what was the result of that?!" Horror hit him instantly as Athos paled and the boy fully realized exactly what he said. "Athos, I didn't—"

But Athos shook his head softly. "I know."

For some reason, that seemed worse than if the man had exploded at him. Suddenly all of it just drained from him, all the fight. He screamed through clenched teeth, breathing heavily, before he slumped back in defeat, tears in his eyes, the dagger dropped from his shaking hands.

Aramis silently seethed. That undeniable fury was back again, that hatred that had boiled up at the mention of Lemay's name, and the thought of him, at the sight of him. It was like an other-worldly thing that possessed him, a darkness that plucked at his soul. It was overpowering.

Athos crouched beside the boy, and put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. d'Artagnan attempted to draw every ounce of strength he could from the gesture. The man who had attempted to break him, turn him into a monster, still breathed. It was a difficult thought, one that weighted on his like a storm cloud.

The sword sung from its sheath, its blade flashing in the falling silver moonlight as the night wore on and the dawn start filter forward over Paris and into the Court's streets.

The group was frozen in surprise and complete silence as they stared at the sword stuck firmly in Lemay's unsuspecting eye socket—even the perpetrator himself seemed shocked. Lemay's chest stop rising and falling, he was gone forever, finally put into his permanent death—as it should have been.

"What did you do?" Athos jumped to his feet and confronted the marksman.

"What needed to be done," Aramis answered stonily. "What _had_ to be done." He pulled his sword free, it making a slopping sound on the release. "d'Artagnan was right. Lemay was a monster in every sense of the word, he was an abomination."

"You don't know that!" Athos protested. "You killed him before we could find out!"

Aramis sheathed his sword and confronted the man in return. "He was a zombie. There is no returning from something like that, not even for God is such a thing possible."

 **"God had nothing to do with this!"**

"Oi!" Porthos stepped forward, intervening before things became physical—completely forgetting about the green-eyed assassin.

Milady took the opportunity afforded to her and made a break for it back down the street. Half of what she had seen, she was still trying to process. The dagger flashed through the air like a dart and stabbed through the folds of her waving skirt, pinning the material to the ground where the knife stuck. Her step faltered.

"Where do you think you're going?" came the death question, the Spaniard lowering his hand. "I'm not in the mood for anymore of your games."

Milady tugged at her dress and the material tore free from its pinion, but further escape was denied her as Porthos stalked forward and grabbed her, and the dagger, dragging her back.

d'Artagnan stared at the body of Lemay for a moment longer—the red, black gushing hole where his eye used to be. He was dead. Done and truly dead. And that dark cloud that he was sure was going to follow him, lightened. Not all of his problems were solved now that Gaudet was dead and Lemay was dead, innate fear that had been with him since that storm with his father was so thick and toxic. But Aramis had kept his promise.

He stood and stepped forward, sheathing the dagger back into his belt as he stepped forward to the others, standing between Aramis and Athos, a part of the interrogation of Milady de Winter, a temporary wall between the two men.

"You're a surely starting to become more of a hindrance than a use to us, Anne." Athos told her coldly. "I suggest you think of something tangible to tell us in order to extend your life—it seems to be fleeting."

A concealed shiver went through her at her husband's words. She was a survivor. She did what needed to be done in order to live, no matter how dirty or deploring—if it served her purpose or was in her best interest—

Well then…

[tbc]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _You're probably all hating on me right now (or not) for going through all that work to 'bring' Lemay back, and then just stab him in the face (by Aramis no less), but it was my plan to kill Lemay the entire time anyways (sorry). Let's just call this just-desserts, eh? Whether he was truly bad or not, or just dragged into the evil-situation, he gave into his scientific mind and went all evil scientist and experimented on people. So I reiterate, he had it coming._

 _I would also like to point out, that d'Artagnan's bite does_ _ **not**_ _return normal zombies to their human state, they are rotting corpses after all. And we'll never truly know if the same could be said for the hybrid-zombies that were changed with his blood because Lemay never got to tell them his story. But as Porthos said, being turned by being bitten is different than turning after dying, right? All the hybrid-zombies were transfused with d'Artagnan's blood and then bitten (as opposed to being transfused and then killed [which let's say, resulted in their permanent death as being human and being bitten and killed (by d'Artagnan) like that Red Guard])._

 _This whole zombie thing is more complex than I originally anticipated. Does this make any sense to anyone else? LOL_

 _y_


	11. Chapter 10: (His Greatest Muppet)

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general zombie concerns.**

 **Note: So, as it turns out, this is the last chapter. Let's see how this puppy goes!**

 **Chapter includes (warning/spoilers):** I'm not sayin'!

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Life is Death is Dead**  
 _Chapter 10:_ —

Treville stared at the four of them hard from where he sat behind his desk in his office/quarters at the Musketeer garrison. The last thing he had expected was the very unannounced return of the Inseparables, with d'Artagnan in attendance—and the kicker, his Lieutenant's estranged wife.

The previous day, (because in honesty, the dawn of the next day was broken), the Captain attended the funeral of one of his men who was very much alive. He had not expected to see the 'dead'-man and the reason for his survival so soon the next day, not when both were supposed to be secreted away for safety. d'Artagnan was proof that someone could survive the infectious bite, and Aramis was the proof that such a thing as an immunity could be spread. The last thing any of them needed was the Cardinal getting his hands on them, and in the boy's case—again. Yet, here Treville sat, staring into the eyes of Richelieu's number-one henchwoman. He imagined the consolation to this was that she was in _their_ custody.

"This better be good." He told them with steel. His gaze raked over them, not missing the subtle tension that was in the group. Porthos stood guard over the green-eyed woman like a gargoyle, and he didn't miss the way that d'Artagnan had casually slipped himself in attendance between Athos and Aramis. He clasped his hands on his desktop and stared across at the woman, "So, Cardinal Richelieu's infamous lapdog, in the flesh..." Her red lips just twisted into a light smirk. He could see the mark on Aramis forehead, and the rest of them looked haggard (Milady looking equally harassed).

Treville's gaze turned pointedly to Athos, who gave a minuscule nod.

"Porthos, why don't you show our guest some of our revered Musketeer hospitality." Athos told the large man.

Porthos nodded, a grim line to his lips. "With pleasure." He jerked the hood over Milady's head, obscuring her scowling face, before he tightened his already fast grip on her upper arm and dragged her out through the back door of Treville's office that lead through Armoury and further into the upper residence of the garrison.

There was silence in the room as Treville looked at each of them in turn. "Would someone like to tell me what the hell is going on?" he said levelly.

So Athos gave him the short and sweet version of it, with interjections from Aramis and d'Artagnan throughout and Treville paid rapt attention, taking in and storing away every last detail put upon him—the attack of Gaudet, Athos' plan to confront Milady at the Court of Miracles while Porthos and Aramis snuck d'Artagnan from the city to safety, whereupon the Gascon discovered what was going on and ran after Athos, the other two chasing after, and they all ended up in the Court, facing Milady and a herd of zombies that she had somehow snuck from the Old Seminary to the Court without notice over the last few weeks—until there was a pregnant pause and the three of them looked their own different degrees of unsettled and unwilling.

"What is it?" Treville almost didn't want to ask himself. It had to be something horrible if it made Athos and Aramis pause, but he needed to have every detail.

"The zombies that attacked us weren't normal." Aramis finally spoke up.

"What do you mean, not normal?" to Treville surprise, it was d'Artagnan that answered:

"My blood..." d'Artagnan started, but then shook his head. He swallowed. "Lemay took my blood, lots of my blood when I was in that cell. In order to discover a cure, he experimented on people," Treville nodded, and remembered what Athos had reported to him after the Inseparables had first rescued d'Artagnan. "My blood was infused into them, and then they were bitten. Their change was different, it—they, I don't know," his hand waved, "They moved differently, they were faster... their eyes were still coloured..." he paused, "And she was able to command them."

"Command them," Treville repeated.

Athos nodded. "With this," he reached into the pouch on his belt and pulled out the silver whistle. He handed it to the Captain.

"A whistle?" his tone clearly stated his doubt. Treville turned the small silver tube between his fingers. He could not fathom a whistle controlling zombies. d'Artagnan's bite as a cure... sure, he'd seen it with his own eyes in the Spaniard standing before him. But this just didn't seem plausible.

"We think it's because d'Artagnan has the immunity to the bite," Aramis tried to explain, "The disease reacts differently to it, even as it appears not to be a cure, as his bite is. The chemistry of the conversion into the dead is changed. The people retained low-level brain functionality that while still remain mindless with no instinct other than to eat warm-blooded flesh, they were commandable..."

Treville rose the whistle to his lips—

"No!" Athos shouted, but it was too late. No sound emitted, but the reaction from the boy was instantaneous.

"Aah!" d'Artagnan shouted in pain, clutching at his ears, trying to block out the piercing sound as his knees gave out.

"d'Artagnan!"

Treville shot to his feet, and Athos and Aramis knelt on either side of the boy.

"What happened?" Treville demanded in alarm.

"The whistle!" Athos growled.

Treville dropped the small object onto his desk with a slight clink. "You said it controlled the zombies—"

"Zombies that were made with _d'Artagnan's_ _ **blood**_." Athos said.

Aramis was rubbing soothing circles on the boy's back, murmuring soothing words and sounds of comfort. d'Artagnan stayed hunched, his hands fisted at his head, his breath heavy and ragged.

The atmosphere in the room stayed tense until d'Artagnan finally raised his head. He looked pale, the colour drained from his deep olive-toned skin. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and his expression was pinched.

"d'Artagnan?" Aramis asked gently.

"I'm... I'm okay." He answered, though his tone was slightly shaky. "It's just—I wasn't ready."

A grimace of guilt crossed Treville's face. "I'm sorry, d'Artagnan. I didn't know."

"It's—it's alright, Captain Treville." Aramis helped pull him to his feet, then turned him to and pushed him onto the edge of Treville's bunk. Athos went over to Treville's sideboard and poured a glass of water from the pitcher and handed it to the boy. d'Artagnan took it with a nod and drank gratefully.

Treville finally sat back down. He stared at the whistle. It looked so innocent and innocuous—but clearly, that was no the case. After a moment, Treville picked up the whistle again and studied it more closely. The silver tube was about the length of his middle finger and just as thin in diameter. But unlike a regular whistle, this one had more than one slit. There were several, in fact, located irregularly around the tube and in different shapes and widths.

Finally, he put it back down. "How could Milady have discovered such a thing in the first place?" he wondered.

Athos shook his head helplessly and his voice was reserved, "Saying she's clever is an understatement, sir." He reclaimed the whistle and tucked it back into his pouch.

"Did you ever find out about what happened to Lemay?" Treville wondered after a moment in lieu of a response. He missed the shudder that went through d'Artagnan, or if he did notice, he put it off as a shiver from the after-results of the whistle.

"Lemay's dead." Aramis answered (quickly before Athos could open his mouth). "Milady tortured him and he broke, that was how she knew it was us that had rescued d'Artagnan. After, she turned him with d'Artagnan's blood and he was killed with the rest of the zombies in the Court."

Athos send him a hot glare but said nothing and Aramis continued to stare steadily at Treville. They couldn't even be sure what really happened with Lemay, if d'Artagnan's bite had cured the man of the zombie-disease because he was turned with the boy's blood, or if it had just been a simple trick of adrenaline, poor lighting and uncharted waters. They would never know now, and perhaps that was for the best. Whatever Lemay was, it was an abomination—and no such thing should walk God's Green Earth.

Treville eyes flickered between the two for a moment before he nodded.

Athos crossed his arms over his chest, faced Treville, and told him what they had dredged out of Milady before they left the Court.

As much as they wished that they could have burned the bodies of the hybrid zombies, the smoke would attract attention that wasn't wanted, and Richelieu would be alerted that Milady's plan had failed, so they dragged the bodies from the street and into one of the shops that lined the street, before they boarded up the gate in a makeshift barrier in their rush, and returned to the garrison in the early morning hours where the citizens of Paris were still rousing for the day. Using passages only the Musketeers knew of, quickly found themselves in the Captain's office without the notice of the sentry's on duty. Of course, Richelieu would eventually notice that something was amiss when Milady didn't check in with her success, but they were positive that wouldn't be for hours yet.

Milady had revealed to them of Richelieu creating an army knowingly or because she believed that she was going to kill them all and take d'Artagnan.

"And you believe her?" Treville asked after the blue-eyed Musketeer was finished.

Athos sighed and brushed his fingers through his brown locks tiredly. "Milady's tongue is coated in poison, everything she says should be taken with a grain of salt—but... I'm inclined to believe in this instance. She's no fool, and of course she'll play every field she can lay her hands on, but she knows her best option is to cooperate with us after what's happened. Richelieu will be spinning for her head now after what happened, as much as he will be ours."

Treville was quiet for a moment before he nodded in agreement with that assessment. "In reality, she hasn't said anything that we already don't know or have suspected." He paused. "A meet will need to be made with the Queen first," he said finally after a moment of thought. "We need all of our zombies in a row if this has any chance of succeeding."

Athos nodded to him before he turned to the others and the three left through the door that Porthos and Milady had, as Treville took out a clean bill of parchment and dipped the quill. Like all the messages between them, as infrequent as they were, it was only on urgent matters that they risked meeting.

* * *

The Musketeer garrison was a large encampment that was able to house several hundred soldiers, though it had been a long time since it had been at such a bulging capacity. The King's Musketeers didn't have the man power that it once did before the zombie age almost sixteen years ago. A Musketeer had to be commissioned by King Louis himself, unlike the Cardinal's Red Guards who just appeared to be thugs more than anything.

Porthos had taken Milady to the barracks that hadn't been occupied in years. It was a section that obviously wasn't frequented so there wasn't a high chance that a secret prisoner, dead Musketeer and immune boy would be caught or spotted.

Porthos dusted off his hands and stepped back, admiring his worked of the tied up assassin. He had grabbed some rope form the Armoury as they passed through and put it to some definite good use. He was not going to give her the chance to escape again, that had been one slip-up he would not make again.

"Is this truly necessary?" she questioned, a curved brow raised sharply.

Porthos simply stared back at her, unimpressed. "Lady, you don't want to know what I think is necessary..."

"You can't keep me here forever." She told him.

"Forever..." he repeated. "Not in your wildest dreams."

"You ape—!"

"Try an' scream," Porthos threatened, "And you'll know what this tastes like." He spotted an old and rotting rag in the corner and scooped it up. She sneered at him but stayed silent and he gave her a huge smile. "You know, you ain't that bad when you're silent." Her death glare had him laughing, but he quieted as he finally heard the footsteps down the hall—he recognized them immediately.

"You two kids getting along?" Athos asked dryly as he, Aramis, and d'Artagnan stepped into the room.

"Like besties," Porthos drawled.

"Aw, you're making me jealous." Aramis faux pouted, leaning against the wall next to the big man. His gaze cut roughly across the woman. "How do you like your new accommodations?"

She sneered at him, "Made all the worse by your presence, Musketeer."

"Enough." Athos told the woman, his voice hard. "Your reign of terror is over, Anne. You killed Thomas, but you won't kill me or anyone else for that matter. "

"Heh." She scoffed at them and they looked at her. "If you think this changes a thing," she held up her bound wrists, "it doesn't."

"You're defeated, it's time you face the music." Athos jerked his chin in direction to the others and they moved to the room across the hall so that Milady wouldn't be able to hear them, but she was still in their line of sight so she wouldn't be tempted to try something.

"So, what's th' plan?" Porthos questioned.

"Get some rest," Athos replied, "It's going to be a long day. In a few hours we'll ride to the Palace. I'll keep an eye on Milady." He started for the door.

"I should." Aramis' words stopped him and Athos looked over his shoulder with narrowed blue eyes at the Spaniard. The tension was still between them, and it wouldn't be so easily gone or dismissed until they had a straight conversation about it. "d'Artagnan and I slept last night, and I know for a fact that you and Porthos didn't." He had too much on his mind at the moment anyways, though he was sure the others felt the exact same.

Porthos raised a thick brow at him, and Athos finally relented. He accepted with a minimalist nod, before he turned back into the room, clapping d'Artagnan on the shoulder. The two men and boy settled into a spot amongst the unkempt room. Aramis exhaled deeply and stepped back into Milady's room.

He sat on the rickety stool that stood in the darkened corner of the lightening room (his head thumbing lightly), faced the woman bound to the bones of an old bunk, leaned back against the connected walls, arms crossed over his chest and legs straight out in front of his, ankles crossed.

Milady looked at him, the gaining sun slanted on her face through the window, making her green eyes look bright and unearthly. But he stared steadily back, unflinching and let his dislike of her shine brightly through his own brown eyes.

The woman was nothing but trouble. He just prayed to God that she wouldn't be given opportunity to do more—especially where d'Artagnan and Athos were concerned.

* * *

A few short hours later, the streets now full of subdued life as the sun rose fully into the morning sky, d'Artagnan found himself secreted through the Palace grounds with the others, and to a anti-chamber still part of the main residence, but off the beaten path to the Queen's apartments.

Seeing this place, one would not know of the devastation that reeked the rest of the rest of Paris, the rest of France—the world. The floors were made of marble that was polished to a shine. He had never seen a place so clean before, spending most of his life outside. There was so much space. The stairs were wide enough for all five of them to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with room left to be comfortable. It was insanity. d'Artagnan was sure you could fit all the citizen's of Paris into the Palace without trouble. It seemed such a waste not to utilize the space for such things.

"Your Majesty," Treville bowed with the others as the double-doors closed behind them, to find a single woman in the empty, spacious marble room with a crystal chandelier, its windows high upon the wall that afforded no sight but that of the clear sky.

"Captain," Queen Anne dipped her chin in greeting. Her light brow creased. "What has happened that warranted such an urgent meeting?" she spotted d'Artagnan and her head tilted lightly, "And who might this be?"

d'Artagnan froze at the sudden attention, he could think of absolutely nothing to say as he was held under the Queen's gentle and probing gaze. She was beautiful, regal and poised and kind, all the things that Milady pretended to be.

Aramis chuckled lightly and clapped d'Artagnan's shoulders from where he stood behind and to the side of the tall boy, only fifteen but he appeared the man at times. "d'Artagnan's part of the reason for our sudden appearance, Majesty."

"Oh?" she wondered.

"M-my Queen!" d'Artagnan stammered out, ducking his head into another bow.

Her chuckle was light. "Such a sweet young man." His cheeks flamed. "Would you tell me about yourself, d'Artagnan?"

d'Artagnan always found it hard to talk about how exactly he ended up here, how his world, all he knew, crumbled beneath his feet. But looking into Anne's gentle, open, light eyes, he found that the chill wasn't so prominent. He gave a determined nod and by the end, d'Artagnan felt exhausted as her expression held sympathy.

"I always knew that the Cardinal was a horrible man, but this is just beyond any form of reason." Anne shook her head. "What exactly could he hope by developing such a thing? A zombie army? it's insanity, is what it is!"

"We do not exactly know," Athos admitted.

"So what is it you plan, Captain?" she questioned.

"We have d'Artagnan, and Milady de Winter. There's Gaudet's body at Athos' apartment, and the hybrids at the Court, along with Lemay—And let's not forget the cells of evidence under the Old Seminary," Treville reiterated. " _That_ is irrefutable proof."

Their conversation was sidelined as their was a large rumbling and crashing that blew through the air, and shook the floors. An almightily tremble that felt all the like an earthquake. Aramis quickly reached out and steadied Anne with a gentle hand.

"What on earth was that?" the Queen gasped. "An attack?"

"Aramis, d'Artagnan—stay with the Queen." Treville shouted the order. "We must find the King!" and he, Athos and Porthos rushed from the anti-chamber.

"I must know what is happening," Queen Anne said in a controlled tone, "I must know if my husband is all right."

"My Queen—" Aramis started gently.

The young woman shook her head. "If something has happened, I cannot hide away. I need to be by My King's side."

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked as the man seemed to struggle in the decision of obeying Treville orders and keeping the Queen safe.

Aramis finally sighed and a wry look took his brown eyes as he slowly spoke, "The Captain said to stay with the Queen—so wherever Her Majesty is, we shall surely stay."

Her expression lightened as she looked at him and realized exactly what the Spaniard was implying. "You shall escort my to His Majesty, and stay at my side."

"Yes, My Queen." Aramis bowed, doffing his hat before he straightened and turned towards the doors that the others had left through. "d'Artagnan?"

d'Artagnan nodded, and without having to be told—took up position behind Queen Anne as they left the anti-chamber.

* * *

The halls were a panic as the Palace guards and servants were rushing through the halls. By their response alone, this definitely was an attack as opposed to an earthquake—an explosion and a big one.

Treville grabbed a man, jerking him to a halt. "Where is the King?" he demanded. The attendant gasped out a reply and the older Gascon released him and the trio picked up their pace.

"Ah! Captain Treville!" King Louis exclaimed at the sudden entry of his Musketeer Captain in both surprise and relief taking his voice. "When did you get here?"

"We were already on the premises when the explosion happened, Your Majesty." Treville bowed with the others, "Are you alright, sire? What has happened?"

"That's your job to know, Captain!" Louis snapped, the whites of his eyes clearly visible. "An attempt on my life? You must catch them! Now!"

"The explosion felt far away, sire." Athos interjected calmly, but it seemed to do little to ease the pacing King's worry.

"Here's Captain Trudeau now, sire." Cardinal Richelieu finally spoke, nodding towards the same doors that the Musketeers had entered to find the Red Guards Captain.

Trudeau stepped passed the Musketeers with a barely concealed sneer before he bowed to Louis. "Your Majesty. Cardinal Richelieu," Trudeau straightened. "The explosion occurred on the other side of the grounds."

"Where exactly on the grounds?" Treville questioned and stepped forward, eyes narrowed.

Trudeau glanced at Richelieu who gave a miniscule nod. "The Old Seminary seemed to be the target."

"The Old Seminary," Athos repeated quietly and the four Musketeers' gazes flickered to Richelieu, who wore a rich mask of shock.

"Oh, no!" Louis gasped, looking to his First Minister. "Cardinal, you were just there! The luck—!"

"Yes," Richelieu nodded solemnly. "It seems it pure luck that a different matter pulled me away to your attendance, sire."

"Well, then..." Louis seemed more than a tad less worried on the matter now that he didn't seem to be the target, but the Musketeers knew that this was **not** accident or attempt against the Cardinal.

"Are there any casualties, Captain?" Richelieu addressed the Guard.

"It's too early to tell, Your Eminence."

"I see." He nodded. "I want a report straight away if you discover anything on the matter."

Trudeau nodded and bowed to Louis before he exited the library.

"Who would do such a thing, hmm?" Louis questioned as the doors thudded shut. "Who would want to harm the Cardinal?"

"Obviously its a political statement—an act against the Church. Myself, perhaps." Richelieu murmured slyly. "But they shan't escape for long. An act on the Church is an act of treason," he crossed himself, "An act against Paris—against yourself, Majesty."

"You will catch these men, won't you, Captain?" Louis turned to Treville.

"Of course, sire. My men are already on it." Treville glance back over his shoulder and nodded pointed to Porthos. The big man nodded back and left, ready to get a picture of exactly what damage to their cause Richelieu had done.

The Cardinal smiled to Treville with faux geniality. "Thank you, Captain Treville. I trust this will be your best work,"

"Of course, Your Eminence." He replied dryly.

* * *

"Porthos!" Aramis called as he saw Porthos coming down the hall. Porthos paused and turned to him. "The explosion—what's happening? Is the King alright?"

Porthos nodded. "'E's just fine. It was the Ol' Seminary that was attacked."

"The Old Seminary?" d'Artagnan questioned.

"Where you were 'eld." Porthos pointed out and the boy and Aramis paled in realisation. "It was the Cardinal, it 'ad to be."

Aramis groaned in dismay. "This is what we were afraid of." He lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. "Where are you to, then?"

"Treville wants me to check it out." Porthos eyed the man, "Didn't Treville say to stay with the Queen?"

A smirk curved the corner of the Spaniard's lips. "That's exactly what I'm doing, my friend." He winked.

"An' well see 'ow 'e reacts to that exactly," Porthos snorted. "They're in the library chamber."

Aramis nodded and the two brothers grasped arms briefly before they parted ways.

If Porthos didn't know his way around the Palace or its grounds, all he needed have done was follow the black, billowing smoke and rush of bodies like a trail of ants. The smell caught him on the gentle breeze of the morning before he was even at the site of devastation.

It threw him back to the Court of Miracles when he was just a teenager and the order had been given for the Minneapolis of itself was to be razed and the trash burned away from the body in hopes of culling the disease and taking away useless mouths to feet in the coming months and years. He could still hear the screams and cries—piercing his ears and searing his soul—the fear, the pain...

Porthos shook his head and was brought back to the present as his shoulder was bumped by a passing servant rushing to the rubble with a slopping bucket of water—because as surely before his eyes there was a blazing fire. Servants and Guards rushed back and forth, buckets in hand, leading from the fountain nearby in the garden. A cart with horses was just arriving, its back filled with barrels of water scored from the pond on the grounds.

Porthos stood out of the way and surveyed the wreckage with a the keen eyes of a soldier and a man who had lived the experience. More barrels than he could count of gunpowder had to have been placed, strategically at the structure's weak points, to bring down a building of this size. And crumbled it was, collapsing in on itself for its devastated supports. The explosives must have been placed in the tunnels below, where Lemay had done all of his hellish experiments with d'Artagnan's blood. He shivered at the thought. But even for the explosion, the fire should not be this ravaging. The only explanation for it was that an accelerant like pitch.

This was definitely Richelieu's doing—covering up his tracks, destroying evidence of his plot. He blew up the tunnels, made sure that the building collapsed down into the cells beneath that housed his kidnapped citizens, zombies, and hybrids. The pitch was to burn away what remained afterward. Burn away the evidence of the crushed bodies. Melt the skin away, make it flake away crisply out of existence. The bones would be crushed, and maybe if the fire got hot enough, they'd burn to ash.

The water would hardly do a thing if the accelerant was coating the rubble buried beneath the rubble—they were just going to have to wait for it to burn itself out.

It would be days, weeks, maybe even months before it was cleared away and there was any hope of search for people who might have been in the building when it went down, let alone what skeletons were buried in the basement. By that time, all the evidence of Richelieu's wrong doing would be gone.

With a rough exhale, his eyes watering, the back of his throat clogged with the heavy smell, Porthos turned from the efforts—and went to retrieve Milady at Treville's order.

He just hoped that it was going to be enough.

* * *

Indeed—Richelieu was not a fool. When Milady never returned from the previous night, he knew only one of several things could of happened: She was captured or killed or fled. She was too smart to do the very latter. The Musketeers were too smart to do the middle fee. That left only the former.

That left him to do a fast and dirty clean up job with the stocks of gunpowder that he had stowed away in case something like this had happened. His operation in the tunnels below the Old Seminary were just too big and spread out to do it any other way. It was a pity, of course, all these years of obsession—but he had to admire the results. The building collapsing into the tunnels, burying his sins, and the remaining dead consumed in a hot hell-fire of his own making. And if any bodies or bones were eventually found, he would proclaim it an old hidden crypt, long forgotten.

His suspicions on the matter were confirmed when Treville, Athos, and Porthos arrived. None were meant to be at the Palace today, and they arrived only fast enough to have already been in Louvre. He couldn't have set the explosion soon enough

Now... what was Treville's plan?

The question was answered soon enough as not long after Porthos left, the Queen arrived with another Musketeer—and d'Artagnan, the object of his obsession. Athos shot a glare at the Spaniard for his sudden and unannounced arrival, but Aramis' only response was a flicker of the brows; it was too late now.

Queen Anne gave the Cardinal a flashing cold look before her eyes landed on Louis and she rushed to her husband, and worried mask on her face. She clasped his hands and Louis sighed in relief at the sight of her.

And Richelieu forced himself not to be distracted by the marvellous boy and keep his mind keen, for Treville had no choice but to make his move now or forever stay his peace.

Athos and Aramis shifted their positions so that they now stood between Richelieu and d'Artagnan, cutting off the sight of each other for either of them.

"My husband," Anne murmured, and Louis perked up at the term of endearment. "In light of recent events, Captain Treville has something very serious that he wishes to speak with you about."

"Serious?" Louis sighed. "After everything I'm quite sick of serious." Anne's light brows flickered and he sighed, looking over to the older man. "Oh, alright. What is it that is so urgent, Captain?"

Treville nodded firmly and straightened. "I do not believe that this is an act against the Church or yourself, Majesty—but the Cardinal's undertaking."

"The Cardinal's doing?" Louis sputtered in laughter at that. "I didn't take you for the joker, Captain."

"This is no joke, sire. I assure you—"

"What you're claiming is preposterous!" the Cardinal exclaimed indignantly. "Why on earth would I attempt to destroy the Old Seminary?"

"To destroy the evidence of your misdeeds that lay in the secret tunnels beneath Old Seminary—which has now just been blown up. Coincidently, the same morning that I was going to relay all of this to you." Treville fought to keep his voice even. "He's been kidnapping people for years no doubt with the aid of his Red Guards, and experimenting on them—hoping to find a cure. And he had been creating an army of the walkers—"

"Treville, have you gone completely mad?!" Louis gaped at him.

"d'Artagnan here—"

The King seemed to notice d'Artagnan for the first time, and the fact that he wasn't a Musketeer, nor a grown man for that matter. "Why on earth would you bring a homeless boy to Palace at a time like this, Treville?" Louis was bewildered.

"The reason for his state is Richelieu's doing." Treville answered evenly. "d'Artagnan is witness to exactly how cruel and manipulative His Eminence is, Your Majesty. He has suffered at the hands of his cruelty."

"I have never touched a hair on that poor boy's head!" Richelieu protested.

But that was in fact, **not** the truth. It was hours after d'Artagnan had first awoken in the cell beneath the Old Seminary, chained, when he'd first met the Cardinal—who _had_ in fact, backhanded him. The Gascon still had the healing scabs on his cheek. But other than that, the man had just systematically hunted him down for the last four years of d'Artagnan's life.

Blood pounded in d'Artagnan's ears as he stepped forward and bowed. "Your Majesty..." he straightened. "A woman that works for the Cardinal misled me, and I was taken at the gate of the city by some Red Guards. When I woke up, I was chained in a cell that was secreted under the Old Seminary. I was there for days, as I was tortured and experimented on like so many others—at the hands of your very own physician, Lemay. Cardinal Richelieu visited. It was the Inseparables that rescued me and have kept me hidden from him until now. Just last night, we confronted his Agent and she countered with an onslaught of the zombie army that he has been creating. We barely escaped..."

"It's why we're here now," Athos continued. "It cannot go on any longer."

"d'Artagnan is special, sire." Aramis added, even though he knew that d'Artagnan disliked the term. "Unlike the rest of us, he is immune to the zombies bite. He does not die and transform—but he simply fights it off like any fever."

"A cure?" Louis asked incredulously.

"His bite, sire." Treville nodded and placed a light hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Oh..." Louis enthusiasm ebbed away at that. "To be bitten?" he shivered and shook his head. "What a grotesque thing to endure."

"It saved _my_ life, Your Majesty." Aramis spoke up. "If it weren't for d'Artagnan, I would not be here now."

"That's all well and good, I'm sure. And while I find that both amazing and impossible, it does not explain why Cardinal Richelieu would do such things..."

"And as I've already stated—" Richelieu tried to helpfully remind.

"Yes, Cardinal. You've said." Treville said sharply. "But what you have yet to admit, is that you have people like Milady and Lemay to do it for you."

"Who the hell is this 'Milady', now?" Louis demanded, irritated at the mention of this woman at every turn, it seemed, and he had now idea who she was.

"She works for the Cardinal, Porthos is bringing her here now."

Richelieu silently cursed at his proved suspicion. Too bad Milady wasn't dead, it would make things all the more simpler for him.

And not a moment too soon, Porthos returned with Milady in tow, her hands tied in front of her, in the same torn and dirtied dress from the previous night—she wore a convincing mask of fear and confusion.

"Another of your wayward's, Captain?" Louis threw up his hands in disbelief. "A woman?"

"This woman is an Agent of Cardinal Richelieu's, sire." Treville reminded him. "She is a murderer and an assassin—"

"Of course she is." He muttered. He straightened and looked irritated. "I am finding it extremely hard to believe any of this, Captain. A woman—a murderess and assassin? I highly doubt that." He sniggered, "All women know about is dresses and children."

This was one instant where Milady was going to let a comment like that slide. It played in her favour.

"Please, Your Majesty. I have done nothing wrong. I was minding mine own business when this big brute of a man snatched me from the street and tied me up!" Milady sobbed.

Porthos glowered at the woman; he should of had the forethought to put a gag in her mouth.

Louis gave Treville a rather sour look, it seemed he was inclined to believe a sobbing woman over his Musketeer Captain; but if one didn't know for a fact that Milady was a poisonous snake, her charades were convincing.

"We have proof of her involvement, Your Majesty." Athos stepped forward, and that made Milady pause. "Written letters addressed to myself and signed in her hand. I've known this woman for nearly fifteen years, sire. I was married to her for three years. I have the marriage licence here." He reached into his doublet and held out several pieces of folded parchment.

Louis looked at them dubiously, but made no move to take them in-hand and read them himself. He shook his head and waved his hand. "I believe you," he stated. He did not hold the belief that the Musketeer would hold out proof to him that was not true. He was a King's Musketeer, he would not lie to his master.

Athos simply nodded and tucked the parchments back into his doublet. The truth of the matter was, that while one of them was in fact the letter that Milady had written to him, calling him out to the Court of Miracles the previous night—the others were forgeries. The only thing of his past life that he had kept, was the forget-me-not locket hidden beneath his scarf around his neck that he had gotten for Milady, back when she was Anne, as a wedding gift. The documents of their marriage were long lost or destroyed, and she'd gone by so many different names he wasn't even sure which was her real name. He didn't believe even she knew anymore.

"I have seen her around the Palace with the Cardinal, husband." Queen Anne's was the last murmured prompt the King needed to make his decision.

"Have it your way, Captain." Louis nodded his acceptance. "Take her to the Chatelet. She will be hanged and then beheaded with all the others at the end of the week."

"What?!" Milady sputtered, her mask forgotten at the sudden forecast of her life to death to dead.

Though Athos knew this was to be one of the outcomes of this play, he still found it as a shock. She had been ingrained into his life for so long, he couldn't seem to comprehend that soon, she was going to no longer be in it.

"Your Majesty, please! This is some big mistake!" Milady shouted. Louis turned his face away and ignored the screaming woman. "Athos—you can't do this to me!" she shrieked as Porthos started to drag her back out the door at Treville's order. Athos stared at her with blank blue-eyes. Aramis squeezed his shoulder. "Athos—!" and then the doors slammed shut and her screams faded fast.

"And what of the Cardinal, sire?" Treville questioned quietly after a moment.

Louis gave a tired exhale. "Captain,"

"My King, please." Treville took a single step forward and no more. "All we have said to you is the truth. We can show the proof of the bodies to you—Gaudet at Athos' apartment; Lemay and the other zombies at the Court of Miracles." He paused for a moment as he caught the corner of Richelieu's mouth twitch; but it wasn't from dread, it was... satisfaction. Now it was Treville who filled with dread as he shared a quick look with Athos. Richelieu had sent a clean-up crew in the time they had been here and he realized that he'd lost Milady.

(When Porthos would think back on it—he never did see Captain Trudeau at the explosion sight.)

"This ridiculousness has gone on long enough, Treville!" Louis shouted. "Accusing the Cardinal of plotting against me—King and Country—and God knows what else." He shook his head, his thick wavy hair shaking around his shoulders. "That is the most preposterous thing I've ever heard. Richelieu? He would bleed—trade his life if it meant the safety of myself or Paris."

"As would my men and I." Treville stated.

"I simply cannot believe a word of what you have said here, Captain." Louis denied him. "I have given you that woman, clearly she despised each of you, I could see that clearly—but what you say of the Cardinal... no."

"Your claims are pure insanity!" the Cardinal shouted. "I am simple humbled to be in the position that I am, First Minister to France and His Majesty. Grateful to my God and My King. These are dire times that we are in, Captain. They have been for some time and we need to be united, not divorced."

"I don't know what to say, Cardinal, other than I could not agree more." Louis nodded to the tall man before he turned to Treville with a stern expression that fit oddly on his boyish features. "As for you, Captain... this has been a simple disgrace upon your record—I hope that you will not bring up this wild and unholy and unfounded accusation again."

"If I were to do such a things, it would not be to overthrow your rights to the throne, sire—but as another such defence for Paris, for France. Who would dare attack us if we had our very own army of walkers?"

"I'm not quiet sure if I should be glad to hear that or not, Cardinal." Louis said dryly.

"I was simply making a valid point, Majesty." Richelieu smiled simply.

He inhaled sharply. "Come, My Queen—I'm feeling peckish after all this drama." He took her hand in the crook of his elbow and left out the doors opposite the Musketeers had come through.

Anne sent a look over her shoulder to the Captain before the doors closed, leaving the Musketeers, d'Artagnan, and Richelieu in a tense and pregnant silence.

Richelieu looked greatly amused, despite the fact that he was greatly outnumbered by hostile bodies. "Well, amusing try, I'll confess. Better luck next time." He boldly started to walk forward, towards them, then passed to the doors that lay behind them.

"This isn't over, Cardinal!" Athos shouted. "You won't get away with this—"

Richelieu let out a light chuckle at that. "Believe me..." he paused at the doors and looked over his shoulder. "Oh, and Charles..." his cold steel gaze found the boy easily. "Don't stay too far from the herd."

And he left, the doors thumping closed. There was even more muteness in the large room now, like a suffocating stillness. Porthos finally returned, looking incensed and confused.

He looked at them all. "What the 'ell 'appened after I left?" he demanded. "I jus' passed that bastard comin' up the stairs and 'e looked smug as Satan!"

"The King denied our claims," Treville was the one that replied. "He simply could not believe the Cardinal's guilt."

Porthos scoffed. "Didn't you tell 'im about the Court, Athos' apartment?"

"Of course we did!" Aramis snapped angrily. Porthos held up his hands in placation at the outburst. "This was something we suspected might happen, but..." he trailed off, disappointed and unable to finish the fact as he pushed his fingers through his unruly hair.

"I..." d'Artagnan's utter was almost too low to hear. "I don't understand." He confessed. He was numb, dull. Overflowed with complete disbelief. They had everything in place, Milady, himself, the Cardinal—and then the next moment it was gone, vanished in crumbling brick and marble and flame. "How could the King just ignore all we had said to him so baldly? I don't..."

"d'Artagnan," Aramis' own anger sudden vanished at the lost tone of the boy's, his slumped shoulders. He put a hand on his narrow shoulder. "We'll figure this—"

d'Artagnan suddenly spun from his grasp, his fists clenched at his sides and his teeth gritted. Anger flashed through him, fanned the flame in his belly with righteous anger. "Figure this out?" he cried. "The Cardinal's still out there. He threatened me clearly that he was still after me! He's never going to stop... he'll keep coming until he has me! I'll never know when he'll make his move. Around every corner, in every dark alley... I can't—" he gasped, fingers clawing through his uneven locks, one clawing at his tightening chest. "I can't—!"

"d'Artagnan!" Athos grasped either of his shoulders, his fingers digging into the narrow bones to close to the surface, inching him from his panic. "This is _not_ over. We will not stop until Richelieu is finished. He's out of players, there's nothing to him. Lemay is gone," he nodded at Aramis. "And Milady will be by the end of the week," he said it almost breathlessly. "He only wins if you let him." He ducked his head to catch the boy's eyes.

d'Artagnan let out a shaky breath as he stared into the blue-eyes of the man that he had once believed murdered his father, but had shortly thereafter become his friend and then brother. His touch grounded the Gascon, his steady gaze anchored him.

"The bastard blew up 'is whole operation today, didn't 'e? And 'e'll never be able to build it back again—not without you, at least." Porthos reasoned. "And 'e'll never get 'is 'ands on you."

"You won't have to face him alone," Aramis said.

"In the meantime," Athos straightened and nodded to Treville, "You can stay at the garrison. We can help sharpen your sword skill, marksmanship, and hand-to-hand—and show exactly why it's a bad idea to try and mess with you."

"We can't replace your father, d'Artagnan," Aramis added, his voice soft. "And that something that we would never try to do. But we have you back, and as you've shown, you have ours."

"I'll be proud to call you brother." Porthos said.

"We all would," Athos agreed.

d'Artagnan looked around at the friendly and open faces of the men around him, and realized that this was exactly what his father wanted him to find in bringing him to Paris. The slumped curve of his shoulders levelled as he straightened with determination.

Richelieu was the Puppet Master in the shadows, that was where all his power lied. In the sun, he wore a mask and acted the part. Under the moon, he was the true beast. He manipulated—the King was his greatest Muppet.

Now, all d'Artagnan and the Inseparables had to do,

was cut the strings.

[the end]

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _ **End Note:** And so that includes this epic tale of insanity, zombies, and Musketeers. Yay!_  
 _(I can almost feel the death glares from here, but you'll never find me!)_

 _This is my most popular fic by-far and I just want to send out a huge and appreciative thank you to all of those who paused a moment in their day to read this zombie fic of mine, not to mention write all those amazing reviews, and click on those favs and follows. I seriously love you all and am so grateful— :D_

 _Thank you all who have read this and reviewed. Thank you so much for the amazing words of encouragement that helped chug-along with this insane zombie fic._

 _And I just want to say to_ _ **Rita Marx**_ **,** _that your review for Chapter 9 put out there some intense thoughts on Lemay that was alarming and amazing. It was quite a pickled conundrum of what might have actually happened with Lemay had Aramis not killed him. I just wanted to say: wow and thanks. :)_

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